


Wrap your fingers round my thumb

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Babyfic, Dad Grantaire, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidfic, M/M, Pining, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:24:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Éponine leaves in the morning, he’s already feeling much better. No really, he is. He makes a cup of coffee and even showers. The sun is shining brightly –even though it’s mostly late in the afternoon than morning but he has no one to apologize to, no reason to excuse himself for being a lazy ass and not finishing that painting for ages- and he’s humming a catchy tune that has been stuck in his head while he wipes his hair dry with a towel. He opens the door because he feels good enough to take the trash out, and everything’s alright, even the odor coming from the plastic bag, until he hears it.</p><p>It’s a cry, a wail, desperate and heartbreaking as if something tiny is trying to cause its lungs to explode and is on its way to success. Grantaire looks around, not willing to accept what he feels coming, before lowering his eyes on the floor.</p><p>In this moment, Grantaire swears, <em>he's so fucking wasted.</em><br/>*<br/>Enjolras leaves to work abroad for a year. When he returns, he finds out that there has been a new addition to their group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo I've had this idea for ages and I had written this a few months ago but stopped because I had no further inspiration but now I started again because dad R is killing my feelings! Sorry about the cliche storyline, feedback and opinions are more than welcome, especially when it comes to the realistic-ness (that's not even a word, don't look at me) of the whole baby situation
> 
> Title is from Ed Sheeran's 'Small Bump' which is a beautiful song and you should hear it

He can remember this night distantly yet he can feel every minute of it deep beneath his very core despite his efforts to shove it entirely out of his mind. It is there,  _he_ is there, in his painful nightmares, in his lust driven showers, in his peaceful, comforting dreams. He likes to believe he isn’t, yet he remembers every single thing. The dimly light backroom of the Musain, the farewell party, everyone’s numb expressions, Courfeyrac’s whimpers and clingy hugs, Combeferre who looked as if something heavy had stuck in his throat, clearing it again and again and taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose with his fingers, Bahorel and Bossuet who had rendered themselves pissed drunk and were singing on the top of their voices to defuse the tension and make it easier for  _him,_ Jehan who gave him courage, Feuilly and Joly who were reminding  _him_ how to take care of himself, Éponine’s hoarse “We’ll miss you, asshole,” Marius’ awkward goodbyes and Cosette and Musichetta’s calm, tender smiles and reassurances.

He was on the table in the corner, nursing a bottle of Jack, his insides feeling empty, numb, his muscles limp as he watched all of his friends bidding Enjolras goodbye and him trying to stay calm and collected while he assured them that he’d be back before they knew it, that he’d visit in Christmas and that fourteen months wasn’t anything at all, he’d soon be back in Paris with a steady job in journalism and stay there.

And Grantaire just drank, feeling a mere outsider, an invisible spectator and Enjolras had nothing to do with him, he wasn’t even a friend, he had no right to miss him when he’d be gone for New York.

Yet he missed him already.

He wasn’t anything important in Enjolras life. They had spent far too long hating each other, or at least Enjolras being confused and disappointed by his drinking and mocking their cause and Grantaire pretending to be indifferent, careless, disguising his devotion beneath a sheer veil of sarcasm, loudness and obnoxious comments and actions.

And then there were the kisses. One kiss after that protest, drunken in the ideas of freedom and equality, just a brief brush of their lips which almost caused Grantaire to faint. One kiss after a meeting, drunken in wine, harsher, needier, sloppy and incoherent. They never talked about them, they couldn’t really deal with them, they couldn’t understand, they couldn’t fight it. A few kisses here and there, breathless and greedy and desperate.

And now Enjolras was about to leave the country. For a year and two months. There was nothing between them, nothing strong enough to hold, nothing coherent enough for them to discuss, to try for. Just pain and alcohol, but Grantaire had been used to it ever since he remembered his existence.

So he watched, he drank and he watched as they all hugged Enjolras, bear hugs (Bahorel, Joly and Bossuet) or awkward ones (Marius, Joly and Éponine), warm and meaningful (Cosette, Musichetta, Feuilly and Combeferre), desperate ones (Jehan and Courfeyrac), a few tears, a few cracked laughs, a few pats on the back, “congratulations”, “good lucks” and broken “I hate you’s”. (Courfeyrac. Always Courfeyrac).

And then they started walking out of the Musain. Combeferre and Courfeyrac tried to smile brave grins, after all they’d see him again the following morning, driving him to the airport.

Enjolras was alone in the room and Grantaire noticed, a little tipsy. His cheeks were flushed and his golden hair disheveled. His eyes fell on him and the world stopped for an instant. “And you?” he muttered, almost sharply as he crossed the room with a firm stride, shortening the distance between them. “Won’t you say goodbye?”

Grantaire felt struck by thunder. “Why are you doing this?” he heard himself croaking. “You know it’s hard for me. Do you enjoy watching me suffer?”

Enjolras froze, just a few inches away from him, looking shocked. His voice was almost defensive when it eventually came out. “Do you think this is only hard for you?”

He snorted. “Oh  _of course,_ it must be very hard to make your fuckin’ dreams come true, to go away and save the world, it’s like you  _care._ ”

The blonde took a deep breath and raised his eyes. “You know very well that I’m leaving the place I grew up in, the city that I love, my friend and family to go and work somewhere I’ll be completely alone.” Running his fingers through his hair he gazed at Grantaire with what for the first time seemed like pain. “I’m leaving you.”

“I know,” laughed Grantaire bitterly. “And don’t you dare pretend that you care just to make me feel better.”

Their eyes met. “Why do you doom this?”

“This can’t work,” Grantaire replied hoarsely, his chest burning with ache and desire. “You can’t fix me.”

“What do you need?” Enjolras’ voice almost broke.

“You. Just give me you.”

There was silence, eerie and palpable. “I’m leaving.”

Another silence. Another beat, piercing violently through his ribs. “I know.”

Enjolras cupped his face and leaned closer, pressing their lips together. Grantaire let a small whimper before melting in the kiss, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs, throwing his arms around his shoulders. They kissed slowly, drunkenly, trying to memorize every inch of the other’s skin beneath their fingers, every corner of their mouths under their tongues. It was Enjolras who broke the kiss to stare at him. “Come with me to the airport tomorrow,” he pleaded.

Grantaire pulled away, as if hit by electricity, breathless and disheveled. “I can’t. I hate airports.” He did. They suffocated him. The white cleanness, the shiny floor, the metallic announcements, the feeling of finality, of starting a new life with no turning back, from flying to change without even asking for it.

“Take care of yourself.”

“I won’t choke in my own vomit, Apollo, and I will be careful enough not to slit my throat open while shaving in the morning.”

A curt nod. “I’m sorry.”

A cackle. “Don’t be.”

They didn’t kiss again goodbye. They didn’t hug. Their expressions were blocked, restricting the other and even their self from reading their feelings.

Grantaire returned home and slept for six hours straight. He learnt from Combeferre in the evening that Enjolras had arrived safe and settled down in his new apartment.

He didn’t leave home for a few days which Jehan literally spent in his apartment, holding his hair back while he emptied the contents of his stomach in the toilet. It was only a few days later, when Courfeyrac and Éponine came to drag him out of his apartment that he put something on and followed them to the Corinthe.

He was pissed drunk and the club was bouncing with music, alcohol and sex, making his head throb dully to the beat. He remembers laughing, he remembers dancing, his hands on her hips. He doesn’t remember much else, other than the fact that she was beautiful, golden curls reaching her waist and promiscuous, blue eyes lighting up in the disco lights. Somehow she reminded him of Enjolras, a miserable, savage beast roared inside him. They ended up in his apartment. When he woke up naked in his bed the following morning, she was gone.

With his new job Enjolras was way too busy to communicate with all of them via Skype. Grantaire did his best to avoid him. They lost every contact, and after the first six months, the murderous pain grew dull and numbed a bit. He learnt his news by the others and did not join them in Christmas, when Enjolras returned to Paris for a few days. They understood and did not press on him.

Maybe it was easier that way, living in different sides of the world. Maybe it was better to be completely, absolutely alone, even when surrounded by his friends.

It comes as a phone call. It’s Jehan, and he knows his friend is at Courfeyrac’s and has sneaked in the balcony to call him because his voice is muffled by his hand and he can hear traffic noise. “He’s coming in three weeks.”

Three weeks.

Right.

“R? Are you okay?”

No, he’s not fuckin’ okay. This is fucked up, the most fucked up thing that has happened to him in months. He isn’t ready to start pretending again.

He can’t.

“R?”

“Sure. Sure, I’m alright.” He clears his throat. “Thanks for letting me know.”

He’s alright.

Éponine finds him throwing up in the toilet again when she visits him that night to bring food from Musichetta. They spend the night curled together in bed, holding each other tightly. It’s just the two of them, like the good old days. “It is going to be alright,” she murmurs in his hair.

He agrees.

*

When Éponine leaves in the morning, he’s already feeling much better. He makes a cup of coffee and even showers. The sun is shining brightly –even though it’s mostly late in the afternoon than morning but he has no one to apologize to, no reason to excuse himself for being a lazy ass and not finishing that painting for ages- and he’s humming a catchy tune that has been stuck in his head while he wipes his hair dry with a towel. He opens the door because he feels good enough to take the trash out, and everything’s alright, even the odor coming from the plastic bag, until he hears it.

It’s a cry, a  _wail_ , desperate and heartbreaking as if something tiny is trying to cause its lungs to explode and is on its way to success. Grantaire looks around, not willing to accept what he feels coming, before lowering his eyes on the floor.

There lies a baby carrier, colorful, with a blanket and all that jazz. That would be fine. No seriously, that would be freaking fine.

Only it isn't, because of a tiny, insignificant detail. It isn't freaking fine, because inside the carrier, there is an _actual, living baby_.

In that moment, Grantaire swears he's so fucking wasted.

*

“I can’t believe this happened. I can’t believe I  _let_ this happen…” His hands are still shaking and the glasses of whiskey Éponine helpfully provides him with even though she shouldn’t are not really helping. His eyes are fixed on the wall opposite him in a shocked, horrified expression.

“It’s alright, R. Don’t blame yourself. We’ll figure this out,” Jehan mutters comfortingly, his hands coming to grip around those of Grantaire's. “Try to breathe, try to relax.”

“How can you possibly ask me to relax,  _how_?”

“Are you sure she’s yours?” murmurs Éponine, looking as pale and shaken as himself, walking nervously up and down the room.

“I…” he clears his throat helplessly. “I think she is. You remember that night…  _Jesus,_ how did I let that happen?”

“Now, this is not the end of the world.” Grantaire snorts at Jehan’s words. “Look at me!” the man grips his face and forces him to meet his glance. Jehan is looking determined. “We are going to help you through this. Things like that happen, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Don’t swear upon it,” says Éponine in a bitter, hoarse voice. They both know that this is a sensitive issue for her; she was the one who never saw her two baby brothers after they were given up for adoption, and the way she and her siblings were treated had always been problematic.

“I fucked this up.”

“You didn’t…”

“Yes I  _did,_ ” he emphasizes on every word. “Who the  _fuck_ fucks around with no protection nowadays?”

“You were drunk and he had just left,” Éponine tries to sound helpful, placing a hand on his shoulder, but they all jump up because the baby in the carrier starts screaming again, and Éponine grimaces. “Shit. You need to keep that temper down from now on. You’ve woken the little dude up.”

Jehan picks up the baby from its carrier and settles it in his arms naturally, as if he does this every day. It is crying its lungs out, a piercing, heart breaking sound and Jehan rocks it rhythmically, muttering sweet nothings. “Do you want to hold her?” he raises his eyes and smiles at Éponine.

“No,” she almost growls. “I’m going to drop her, you know I am!”

“It’s a she?” asks Grantaire dully, trying not to acknowledge the fact that his breath is coming out shallow.

“Indeed, I’m almost certain it’s a little dudette!” coos Jehan at the baby who takes a deep breath before continuing to cry. “It’s alright, sweetheart, you’re okay, I understand you’ve had a rough day but we aren’t going to leave you again, I promise!”

Grantaire’s insides clench in an ugly way. Suddenly he feels so tired even though he’s slept for almost twelve hours. Even his voice sounds tired as he outstretches his arms. “Give her to me.”

Jehan hesitates a little before smiling encouragingly, leaning forward to hand the squirming baby to Grantaire, who might be in shock but in reality has never had problems with children in general. He carefully settles the crying bundle in his embrace, pulling her closer to his chest with surprisingly steady arms.

Not having had a decent opportunity to examine her, he is struck with the realization that he might be in love. She is his, he knows from the moment that he takes her in his arms, and it’s the strangest feeling in the world. She’s a chubby little thing in a mint green footsie, waving feet and clenched tiny fists in the air helplessly, a shock of black hair on her top of her head. Her smooth cheeks are red and streaked with tears and it simply breaks Grantaire’s heart to ne be able to immediately make her feel better. He starts rocking her rhythmically in his arms, humming the first song that comes to his mind.

“Seriously?” Éponine rolls her eyes. “Leonard Cohen?”

Jehan snorts before dreamily focusing at Grantaire’s voice. “There’s no comparison between First we take Manhattan and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”

The baby soon stops crying and leaves a few small heartbreaking sobs before relaxing in Grantaire’s arms, exhausted. She stares at him sleepily and her eyes oh, her  _eyes_ …

“She’s beautiful,” sighs Jehan, stroking the little tufts of dark hair with his fingers.

“Look, R,” Éponine begins carefully, “you know how I feel for parents not wanting their children but this is totally different. You never asked for it, you don’t have to do this. There are solutions and we can always make sure that she’s happy.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Jehan assures him. “We’re going to help you through your every decision.”

The baby stares at him behind watery lashes with vivid curiosity. She’s beautiful, no comparison to the ugly little alien he was in his baby photos, and then there are her eyes. She’s so helpless, so vulnerable, she needs him.

_He needs her. Maybe he needs her._

“I want to keep her,” he says quietly, feeling Éponine freezing by his side before bringing a thumb to wipe the tears away from the baby’s face. They don’t talk, he can hear Jehan's smile before he sees it, he can feel Éponine’s relief before she heaves a sigh. 

“Hey there, little lady,” murmurs Grantaire, giving her a knuckle so that she can wrap her tiny fingers around it. “I’m dad. Of course, you don’t have to be a lady. That’s a pretty stuck up title, isn’t it? You don’t have to be a girl either. I mean, you’re probably going to grow up and decide what you want to be for yourself. I'm not the one to impose gender binaries on you, of course I'm not!” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, that probably was a bit too forward. You know, I’ll probably be a very shitty father but I promise I will try because I need you. I’m willing to try, aunt Éponine can castrate me if I drink around you and uncle Jehan has every right to burn me to ashes in some pagan ritual if I forget to change your diaper. I will try my best if you promise to not start bringing dates every other day, unless until you become fourteen. But I promise you’ll never have a problem to bring a boy or a girl or both or…”

“Grantaire?” he hears Éponine’s hoarse voice.

“Yeah?”

“You’ll make a wonderful father, kay?”

Grantaire falls silent for a while. “I’m unable to take care of myself.”

“You’re not alone,” mutters Jehan. They remain silent for a while, until the baby cracks a teary, toothless smile, and Grantaire thinks his heart will explode out of his chest.

“She has your eyes.”

Maybe. Maybe she has them.

*

It’s impossible for him to hold his excitement as he throws his luggage in Combeferre’s port-baggage and allows Courfeyrac to suffocate him in his arms again. He’s back, he can smell it in Courfeyrac’s bleu de Chanel, in Combeferre’s familiar scent of soap and books, in Combeferre’s car that always smells of cocoa, in the  _air,_ he can really smell home in the air as they drive in the peripheral road, staring at the green outside, hearing Courfeyrac chatter excitedly, seeing Combeferre’s smiling at him through the driver’s mirror. It’s home and it’s beautiful, and he’s staying here. He doesn’t know for how long, but he’s staying.

It has been a very busy and extremely interesting year and the work he has been doing has given him so much. He made a few friends there yet they were work friends, and they could never be  _his_ friends. He’s missed them so much, each and every one of them.

He has missed him.

God, it’s been so long, more than a year.

He listens with vivid interest as they fill him up with everyone’s news, Musichetta’s pregnancy and Jehan’s novel and Marius’ new job as a teacher, until he notices that for some peculiar reason they are not going to mention him, and the biggest part of himself would only be grateful for the fact, but then there is another, tiny part which has home connected to those deep blue, melancholic eyes and to cynical lips which taste so distant and forgotten against his own.

“How’s Grantaire?” he hears himself blurting out, and the most eerie, palpable silence falls in the car.

“Good,” replies Combeferre carefully, measuring every syllable. “He’s good.”

Something jumps uncomfortably on the pit of Enjolras’ chest. This answer is hardly convincing and simple sounds wrong, so wrong that his chest tightens and he can’t stare at Courfeyrac who is suddenly silent, desperately trying to catch Combeferre’s glance.

“Is… is everything alright?” he asks suspiciously, his eyes shifting from one friend to the other. “Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac turns around to face him behind the passenger’s seat as Combeferre pulls the brake outside their building, clearing his throat. Enjolras waits, his heart rate increased and his palms unexpectedly clammy. “There’s something you need to know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He rushes into the room, his index finger pressed upon his lips, hushing her fervently. He’s in panic, in real, actual panic. This isn’t like fighting chest to chest with a cop or eleven, this isn’t like slamming your fist on his boss’s office (and then somehow acquiring a promotion instead of the sack), this isn’t like leading the protest or overthrowing a fucking government, this is _much more._  
>  This is Grantaire's daughter, screaming her lungs out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh I'm exhausted and sleep deprived and I don't know what I'm doing, sorry about all the mistakes and the probably shitty characterizations, and I know they're horrible to each other but I'm going to fix this I promise  
> Also this story might get a biiit longer than I'd planned to.

He can’t believe it, he can’t believe his ears when he hears the news in Combeferre’s careful voice, he can’t believe his eyes when Grantaire appears at the doorway with a screaming bundle in his arms. It’s completely insane. He’s only been away for fourteen months and the world turned upside down. He’d never believe it but he’s learnt to believe in most things and the piercing, terrifying siren in his ears does not allow him to feel deceived by his senses.

“It’s true then,” he hears himself saying in a raw voice.

Grantaire steps back. “Good to see you too,” he murmurs, allowing him inside. “So, you’re back.” His expression is blank and his voice emotionless as he pulls the bundle nearer his chest and rocks it softly.

“I’m back,” says Enjolras and it’s soft, but only for an instant. He doesn’t know how he’s feeling about this. It’s crazy and absurd but he obviously can’t care, it’s Grantaire, Grantaire who always mocked their cause and drank himself to death, Grantaire to whom he hasn’t spoken for over a year, careless Grantaire, obnoxious Grantaire.

_Grantaire who kissed him like his life depended on it._

He is a father.

He knows he shouldn’t care but it’s strange, so strange indeed. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta are expecting a child. Cosette and Marius trying to get pregnant. These are things he’d expect when he came back, things that happen in normal, typical groups of friends, that a person who has lived away for long expects to find: couples expecting children, getting married or making plans, having found or lost a work and having graduated, things that have changed in their lives. But _that…_

He really is at loss and the only thing that comes out of his mouth is “I can’t believe this.”

“Well, I’m the one who suddenly found himself with a child,” mutters Grantaire, walking in a funny manner up and down the living room, rocking the wailing little thing in his arms. He stops for an instant but the baby starts crying louder and he has to continue. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“I just…” this is ridiculous. He doesn’t even know why he makes an effort to reply when he can’t even be heard. This wasn’t exactly how he expected to meet again with Grantaire when he left. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

Grantaire chuckles sarcastically, giving no answer as he takes a seat on the couch, almost ignoring his presence, and starts rocking the baby and humming some tune which sounds like The Doors. Enjolras looks stunned as the baby soon grows more and more quiet, leaving one or two choked sobs every once in a while but soon resting exhausted and silent in Grantaire’s arms. He realizes he’s still standing in the middle of the room, dumbstruck, when Grantaire raises his eyes on him as if he’s just remembers his presence and whispers “Take a seat on the couch. If you hold her for a while then I can bring you something to drink.”

Enjolras rushes to shake his head, accepting the offered seat absent-mindedly. Holding an angry baby without knowing how really is the last thing he needs right now. “I don’t need a drink, thank you.”

Soon the baby completely stops crying and it’s almost magical, suddenly it seems like a great accomplishment, no wonders Grantaire looks so proud. “It’s a she, then?” he asks a little clumsily, attempting to make a conversation.

Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. “You learn those things when you get to change your first diaper, I guess.”

There is an awkward silence where Grantaire lowers his eyes to the baby again, his big hand carefully stroking her head and Enjolras can’t help but look with a mixture of vivid curiosity, mere disapproval and something he cannot quite identify. “So have you already decided? You’re going to keep her?” he eventually asks.

Grantaire raises his eyes to stare at him incredulously. “Of course I’m going to keep her! She’s mine!”

“You feel responsible enough to become a father?” Enjolras asks slowly, focusing on the pronunciation of every word as if Grantaire is an infant himself. “You hardly seem responsible to take precautions during your sexual encounters and we’re in the 21th century!”

Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. “I never claimed to be responsible, you know.”

“Are you proud to admit that?”

Silence again, and it’s palpable as Grantaire’s face grows gloomy, almost accusing. “You were the one who left.”

Enjolras’ jaw falls slack for an instant and the tension in the room grows palpable. “Do you blame me for the fact that you impregnated a woman whose name you don’t even remember?”

“You knew things would change.”

“Seems to me like ‘change’ is a dreadful understatement!”        

“What is your fucking _problem_?” hisses Grantaire, never daring to raise his voice, not now that the baby has calmed down in his embrace. “Why would any kind of change in my life affect _you_ at all anyway?”

“Changes in the lives of every member of our group affects me!”

“What _group_ , Enjolras? Is that what you call, the _thing_ you abandoned for over a year? Do you think that it’s working in your absence; that it’s ever going to work again?” Grantaire raises his eyes from the baby which Enjolras can’t really see by his position on the couch right now. It’s so different, not exactly uncomfortable but _bizarre_ in some sense to not be alone in the room, to have another human being, a person who can’t understand a word they’re saying but is still that: _a person,_ helpless, vulnerable and innocent. Entirely too innocent to have a messed up life, Enjolras thinks and immediately feels guilty for making such an unfair prediction. But then Grantaire speaks, no, Grantaire _hisses_ in order to not upset the little girl in his arms, and Enjolras stops breathing. “Why did you even return?” he breathes, and it only takes a second for the color to completely drain off the man’s darker skin. “I didn’t mean that,” he murmurs quickly. “I’m tired, I really didn’t mean that.”

Enjolras feels like he’s momentarily been struck with thunder. His white cheeks are marked with uneven splashes of red and his hands feel numb when he tries to move them. The calmness in the way he almost spits the words surprises even himself. “It’s alright. You never believed in this in first place.”

“Don’t fucking get started with the same old song,” whispers Grantaire only it’s wrong, because he whispers loudly and it’s not a whisper anymore, it’s trying to be and failing and Enjolras sees with terror the little bundle in the man’s arms flinching startled, and starts wondering whether Grantaire is capable of taking care of her at all in first place. “Whenever you knew you were wrong you could simply blame it on me for not _agreeing_ in your every plan and not _believing_ in your every utopian prophecy.”

“This isn’t about our cause, Grantaire,” Enjolras says slowly, hoping that his voice will lack emotion because honestly, right now he can’t afford becoming emotional over anything and everything is so wrong and different and frustrating and Enjolras isn’t ready to handle it. “This is much simpler. You wanted us to be a thing yet you never believed in us.” He stands up. “Life doesn’t knock on your door in a baby carrier. You have to put effort in everything.”

The baby is now squirming uncomfortably in her father’s arms but a vein is throbbing visibly on his forehead and he’s breathing too fast to hush her tenderly right now. Grantaire follows Enjolras’ example and stands up, his grip around the little girl always careful yet the baby is arching her back and stretching her knees and letting small grunts that Enjolras has a really, really bad feeling about. He’s scared, he hardly ever is but now he’s scared, he wants to grab that child and handle it somewhere safe, he wants to grab Grantaire and shake his shoulders and part of him wants to shake his own head and scream until he wakes up from a bad dream with no babies in the room, innocent and free of all the blame for the situation, about to explode in Grantaire’s arms like a time bomb. He wants everything to be like it was but it isn’t and it’s never going to be. It’s not about the baby. Grantaire has changed.

“Why are you never careful?” he hears himself asking, as if his stupid, fat mouth hasn’t already done enough damage. “Why do you keep destroying yourself?”

“Enjolras,” says Grantaire and his voice is weary, breathless. He’s calm but the baby is letting a small, helpless sob and Grantaire’s face darkens with a hint of panic. “I must ask you to leave.”

“Do the right thing,” Enjolras protests. “For God’s sake, think selflessly, think of her!”

The baby is now crying with full force and Enjolras can see her, her toothless mouth gaping open, her lips red and her eyes tightly shut. Grantaire is walking to the door and he knows he has gone too far. “Leave,” the man says hoarsely and when he makes no move because his feet seem to have been stuck to the ground and the baby is wailing madly, Grantaire’s eyes narrow dangerously and his voice comes out of control. “I said _leave_!”

The door slams behind him and he stops shocked outside the apartment. Shoving his hands into his pockets and with his heart thrumming in his chest, he turns around and walks down the stairs.

*

If he forces his mind to return to the memories of the months recently before he left and despite his efforts to more or less shut it all out and concentrate on his work in New York, Enjolras will nevertheless declare that Grantaire scarcely ever showed up at the meetings of their groups, and if he did it was only to mock. In all honestly, Enjolras had never been made sadistically happy by Grantaire’s absence, but he appreciated some peace and concentration when he and his friends were determined to focus on some serious work.

In the first meeting after his return, Enjolras is a hundred percent positive when it comes to Grantaire’s physical absence, but what he does not expect is the presence of his words, sharp and painful in his head. _Do you think that it’s working in your absence? That it’s ever going to work again?_ He’s never in his life needed Grantaire’s hurtful words to be more wrong before, he’s never found himself feeling so frustratingly insecure and he’s more than relieved when, after the first slight formicary, he finds out that his friends have been doing an excellent work in his absence, and everything soon starts flowing smoothly.

It’s during their break that Courfeyrac approaches him and rests back against the counter of the Musain, absently examining his nails. “I know that look,” he croons meaningfully.

Enjolras briefly raises his eyes from the notes he’s been folding, a slight frown appearing in his face. “Sorry, what?”

“Come on, Enj, we’ve literally been friends before we were even conceived as ideas in our darling mothers' a teensy bit stuck up heads,” Courfeyrac simply shrugs his shoulders, a mischievous smile coming to settle on his lips. “I know that look,” he repeats mysteriously.

Enjolras heaves a tired sigh. “Listen, Courf. I’m really happy to see you too, but my day has been exhausting, so if you care to elaborate…”

Courfeyrac lazily runs a hand through his smooth chocolate locks and shrugs his shoulders. “Biting the left corner of your lip nervously until you drew blood throughout the whole meeting, frowned as if you were going to squish a tiny pixie to death with the force of your invisible fair eyebrows, didn’t even roll your eyes when Joly said you were looking peaky and laughed only half-heartedly at his horrible pun. And then there’s the _look._ Your mind’s been travelling, Enjy Poo.” Enjolras shudders with horror.

“And all that by a single look?” Enjolras mutters sarcastically, opening his laptop to check the response from the abortion rights organization.

“It is the look of fucking up, captain.”

Enjolras clears his throat before clicking on his Sent folder, his head making it all harder what with the dull throbbing it’s granted him with. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on,” Courfeyrac moans unusually softly, as if he’s talking to an infant. “How bad is it?”

Enjolras makes the terrible mistake of raising his glance to meet his childhood friend’s honest, clear eyes, because that somehow causes him to break. He brings his fingers to rub his temple and allows himself to fall heavily on a chair. “I really did fuck up.”

Courfeyrac pulls a chair next to him and Enjolras appreciates how low his usually overexcited friend keeps his voice in order to give him some privacy from the rest of their noisy, smoking friends who are taking a break from the meeting. “You shouldn’t have visited him so soon, not after you’d let the news sink in. He needs time, you know, and he really needs this kid. Grantaire went through some serious shit after you left and this baby really is his chance to start over with his life! It surely isn’t very easy for you to understand…”

“Don’t tell me it’s hard for me to understand and don’t tell me Grantaire needs this child to get better, as if it is a free trip in Rome or a new fucking hobby!” Enjolras protests. “This is serious, Courfeyrac, do you understand that?”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking like of Sweetheart, I know this is serious!” Courfeyrac’s warm hand comes to wrap around Enjolras’ tensed arm. “But has it ever occurred to you that this child may need Grantaire as well? That this child might find in him a parent willing to love her, and change himself for her, and give her the opportunities she’d never have otherwise?”

“You probably forget this is _Grantaire_ we’re talking about! Grantaire who was shouting in front of her when I visited him! Grantaire who’s probably drunk himself shitfaced by now…”

“…Tender Grantaire, caring Grantaire, Grantaire who’s always been there when Eponine needed him, who never let Jehan and Joly down, Grantaire who put his friends’ problems above his own,” Courfeyrac’s voice has grown uncharacteristically cold and Enjolras’ insides clench uncomfortably. “Yes, Enjolras, last time I checked it was the same Grantaire we were talking about.”

Enjolras grunts with frustration and weariness as he hides his face in his palms. The effects of a long trip have started showing on him despite the afternoon nap Joly and Combeferre imposed upon him. “I know, you are right. Grantaire is a good man… I mean, even if it never quite worked out between the two of us. But look at him, Courf! He’s irresponsible! A child isn’t all cute baby food advertisements and nursery rhymes and giggle dimples. It’s much more than that…”

“Exactly!” Courfeyrac smiles triumphantly. “It’s much more than that! It’s all about feeling useful by investing your everything in another human being, it’s all about your heart exploding with worry and angst and _pride,_ it’s holding the whole fucking world in your arms and making its protection your grandest goal, it’s about being selfless and caring and _loving,_ and it all sounds to me like what Grantaire could use! No offence, Enj, but you don't know shit about kids!”

There is silence, or at least Enjolras can call the buzzing in his head some form of silence because his friends are now ready to continue and it most definitely isn’t quiet around him. “Say you’re sorry,” Courfeyrac says softly, leaning closer to him, “it won’t hurt you. It’s his choice, and remember, he’s not alone in this. We’re all going to help him, and you can too.”

The meeting goes on without any interruptions and Enjolras can sense Combeferre’s suspicious gaze piercing through him as he knows he isn’t wholly concentrated. When he gets ready to leave at the end of the meeting his best friend doesn’t intervene.

He’s relatively surprised when Grantaire actually opens the door but it’s obvious he was expecting someone else instead of him. His appearance is horrible. He’s in the same old grey hoodie and his eyes are red-rimmed and surrounded by dark circles. Enjolras immediately freaks out because he’s feeling guilty, so guilty, but then he steps inside and realizes.

Grantaire has been drinking.

“Jesus _fuck,_ Grantaire,” hisses Enjolras. The man doesn’t say a word, only chokes back an ugly sob and allows himself to be led back inside. He’s been drinking and he’s been drinking _much more_ than should be allowed. “Why didn’t you call Jehan, or Joly?”

“She’s okay,” is the only thing that Grantaire cares to slur in a hoarse voice, “I swear. Sleepin’.”

Enjolras swears under his breath. The absence of reluctance in Grantaire’s submissive attitude towards him scares him even more. What has he done? How could he have left him like that? “Are you alright?” Enjolras shakes the man’s shoulders, leading him to his bedroom. The sheets are undone and the room messy. In the carrier, the baby is truly sleeping peacefully, and Enjolras has to admit she looks fairly well taken care of, a bottle with remainders of milk on the cupboard next to Grantaire’s bedside and tiny clothes the only items that are neatly folded on the wooden chair. “Sit down,” Enjolras whispers and Grantaire almost collapses on bed, his body shaken ugly by muffled sobs.

“I fucked this up so much,” Grantaire murmurs. “I can’t. Can’t have her…”

“Listen to me,” whispers Enjolras on the verge of panic. “You need to sleep. You’re so damn drunk… God you reek of whiskey! Are you feeling alright?”

“M’ head…”

“Your head? Does it hurt? Do you think you’ll puke?”

Grantaire thinks a bit, his cheeks streamed with tears and his lower lip pouting like that of a child’s. He reminds Enjolras nothing of the loud, obnoxious drunk he’d left behind before he left for New York. “’m okay.”

“You need to sleep. Will you try to sleep?”

“She’s mine…”

“I know, she’s yours. She’s safe. Look, she’ll be here, beside you. I’ll stay and keep an eye on her, okay?”

“She’s not your child,” he spits. “’ don’t want you here.”

Enjolras is just about to curse, completely incredulous at the fact that he’s practically saving his drunken life at the moment, but only a moment later he can’t believe he’s tucking a shaking Grantaire instead, reeking and unshaven under the sheets. “Just go to sleep. She’s okay.”

“Don’t talk, you dunno shit about her.”

He can’t bring himself to apologize after all, not when he’d been right all along. All he knows is that soon the man falls asleep, snoring obnoxiously.

Enjolras quickly peers in the living room, his hands shaking, only to realize that his voice is as well. Combeferre picks up his phone immediately, maybe he’d been expecting this call more than Enjolras himself would. “Is she okay?” is Combeferre’s first question and Enjolras doesn’t have time to question how he knows where he is: the answer is obvious. Instead he feels briefly relieved that not everyone is as glittery naïve as Courfeyrac, and Combeferre has actually been worried for the child more than he has for Grantaire.

“Thankfully she’s fine,” Enjolras says in hushed tones. “They’re both sleeping like babies. I mean... she's a baby, but he got _drunk,_ Ferre. He got so fucking drunk and left me alone with an infant! I think… Ferre I think I’m freaking out!”

“Calm down, Enjolras. It’s okay, just breathe.” It’s only with his friend’s words that he realizes that he hasn’t actually been _breathing,_ his head feels light and he’s panicking. “Enjolras? Can you hear me?”

“Yes. Yeah, I’m here. I swear I’d fucking leave him to choke on his own vomit but it’s not her fault. Do something Combeferre, or so help me, I swear…”

“I’m coming. Bossuet and Musichetta bought him every supplies he’d need, does he have everything or should I bring something?”

“Um…”

“Forget it. Milk, Enjolras. Does she have milk?”

“Oh,” Enjolras sighs in relief, feeling quite proud that he’s able to actually answer that question. “She’s had her milk. I mean, it might have been in the morning, or yesterday but she clearly had milk and now she’s sleeping.”

“Great. Hang on right there.”

Enjolras shuts the phone almost with a smile. Combeferre is a saint, Combeferre is a god among men, Combeferre is a fucking _gift_ to humanity and everything’s going to be alright, Combeferre’s coming to set him free and he won’t have to deal with this nonsense his life has turned to for too long. Just hang on until Combeferre comes…

And then a cry.

A desperate, murderous wail that almost gives Enjolras a heart attack coming from Grantaire’s room and he stands frozen in the middle of the living room unable to inhale because he’s alone, Combeferre isn’t here and he’s bloody _alone._ He considers staying frozen in his position until Combeferre comes so that he can take over but the baby continues screaming and he knows he has to do something because if Grantaire wakes up then Enjolras doesn’t even want to know…

He rushes into the room, his index finger pressed upon his lips, hushing her fervently. He’s in panic, in real, _actual_ panic. This isn’t like fighting chest to chest with a cop or eleven, this isn’t like slamming your fist on his boss’s office (and then somehow acquiring a promotion instead of the sack), this isn’t like leading the protest or overthrowing a fucking government, this is _much more._

He kneels above the carrier and hushes in desperation but apparently this technique doesn’t turn out to be really successful. His heart is ready to storm its way out of his chest and he starts rocking the carrier, but maybe a bit harder than required because that results to her crying even louder. Her tiny chubby face is scrunched up with all of her strength, her cheeks burning red and wet with tears, her lower lip trembling uncontrollably and her eyes shut in distress. She’s arching her back and raising it from the carrier and stretching her body outwards. Enjolras finally realizes she needs to be held out, and that’s when he thinks he’ll completely lose it. “Please,” he begs quietly, “please stop, this is highly inconvenient for me, you do realize that, I’m actually _begging you_ to be quiet for your complete shit of a father –oh God I swore in front of a kid, pretend you didn’t hear that because you shouldn't but really, it is absolutely _crucial_ that you calm down…”

The little girl stops crying for an instant, her lower lip still pouting and her eyes now open and wet, her chest rising and falling madly under the covers, and Enjolras almost takes a breath of relief before he realizes that she’s dragging in some oxygen to continue, louder and more wretching than before.

Grantaire is thankfully still asleep and Enjolras understands with horror that there’s nothing else he can do. He places his trembling hands under her chubby armpits, realizing that there probably isn’t a way more wrong than that to hold a baby and afraid that he might actually kill her picks her up. As long as she’s still in the carrier it feels impossible, he doesn’t know what to do and he waits for her to slip from his hands any minute now, but after he manages to force his sore knees from the floor and stand up, everything comes almost natural. He only has to bring her closer to his chest and then somehow his arms relocate around her body, clumsily but steadily, and she presses her closer to his body. That seems to comfort her as she takes another breath of oxygen and opens her eyes, and he attempts to walk to the living room, realizing that his feet can actually carry both himself and her.

He doesn’t know what to do, whether he should rock her or not, whether he should make some comforting sound or maybe gurgle, or should he purr – no it’s cats that purr – but at least she isn’t trying to wake the whole neighborhood anymore, her lips are trembling in desperation and she’s crying quietly. Her tiny fingers come to grab a fistful of Enjolras’ t-shirt and he almost freaks out at the bizarre sensation before realizing that _God, look at her, he can’t leave her here._ She’s tiny, and odd, and so, _so_ innocent.

In some horrible, sinister and entirely too wrong way Enjolras thinks she might even be beautiful.

Her eyes are open and they’re so blue. Something weird leaps in his chest as she calms down for a while, exhausted and coughing a small cough, to stare at him.

_She has his eyes._

Enjolras can’t move, not really, they’re just there staring at each other when he hears a knock at the door that almost causes him to jump up and throw the baby towards the ceiling.

He makes his way to the door and manages to turn the handle with the baby still in his arms. Combeferre steps in and Enjolras heaves a sigh so hard he thinks there’s no more oxygen left in his body. “Thank God you came,” he whispers, “I’d thought we’d all die.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow at his friend’s unusual dramatics that are more like Courfeyrac’s area of expertise. “It seems to me that you’re doing just fine,” he lets a small teasing smile, outstretching his arms to take the little girl in his embrace in an almost artful manner.

“She was _screaming,_ Ferre! Literally screaming! Are you sure she’s fine? Are you sure he’s been feeding her? Maybe you should check for any damage. She sounded like she was dying!”

Combeferre only throws a disapproving look at Enjolras’ direction. “She seems perfectly well taken care of, actually. Babies do that, you know. They cry,” he mutters, bringing a big palm to stroke her soft, dark hair. “Her head smells of shampoo. He’s washed her today, and probably fed her very recently. We’re going to feed her through the night, obviously, but right now…”

“We’re going to _what_?” Enjolras is pale as a sheet, his brow covered in sweat only to match the baby’s.

“Why, feed her through the night, of course,” Combeferre turns to look at him, a little bewildered. “And I should talk with Grantaire for a pediatrician. She seems old enough to start considering some solid food to her diet as well.”

“You tend to forget that not everyone has three younger sisters,” mutters Enjolras crossly.

“It’s alright, Enjolras,” says Combeferre softly, gently rocking the scared girl in his arms. “You’ve had enough, you’re too tired from your trip. Go and sleep on the couch, I’ll take care of her diaper.”

“What… I’m not leaving you alone!”

“Well of course you are. You must sleep. I’m afraid I can’t give you a lift back home because I can’t leave her now, but the couch seems comfortable enough and you look exhausted.” He gives the now, curious and exhausted infant a small smile. "Don't worry, me and _Petit Chou_ are going to get along just fine! Right now it's more Grantaire that I'm worrying about. He's been taking much better care of her than of himself. Anyway, I'll check on him later. Sweet dreams!"

Apparently babies are _exactly_ Combeferre’s area of expertise, and Enjolras can hardly keep an eyelid open anymore. No sooner does his head touch the pillow that he passes out.

He’s thrown up from the couch, drooling and tousle-headed, certain that a whole army has invaded in the apartment he does not recognize, and he almost has a heart attack when he realizes that something – no, _someone –_ is screaming in the dead of the night. He’s about to call the police but soon he learns the pattern and _God, how the actual fuck has Grantaire managed to cope with that all these nights?_ A restless, calm Combeferre is changing her diaper and lulling her to sleep, then he’s feeding her on the couch while humming incoherent baby nothings. Her eyelids are shut and the poor thing seems exhausted as she sips the milk from her bottle, and then Combeferre does that weird ritual dance, flouncing his right leg more than the left one, with the tiny bundle on his shoulder, patting her back and murmuring soothing words. At some point a drowsy Enjolras tries to stand up and help because Combeferre has literally gotten no sleep at all, but he hits his dizzy head on a shelf and falls back on the couch again. It’s a few minutes –or hours- later that silence falls in the room and he feels Combeferre's quiet grunt of sore muscles and the warmth of his body as he stretches it across the couch against his own.

Somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, Enjolras knows that this is going to be a long night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire takes a deep breath. “Listen, I’m a little stormed up under a lot at the minute, okay? I’m going to make it though. It’s just me and Moriarty.”
> 
> Another pause. “Why do you call her Moriarty? It’s not after Kerouak’s book, is it?”
> 
> And another. “No. Not that, not Dean Moriarty.”
> 
> These pauses are going to kill Grantaire, especially when at the same moment his Little Darling she decides to wipe a snotty nose on his t-shirt. “She really needs a name, you know.”
> 
> “I know she does but _this is not the right moment_. I’ll be fine, Apollo. Thank you for caring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if this took long but really, from now on and for the next couple of months life is going to be painfully hectic and I really don't know if I have time to sleep (though obviously in my life choices fanfiction comes before sleep) but really, I'll try my best, I promise. I'm going to England for the first time in forever next week and I'M GOING TO SEE LES MIS and I literally can't stop internally screaming (occasionally externally as well) but because of the months of classes we lost due to the strikes in Greece, studying and exams stuffed up in an abnormally short period of time will be absolute hell and the trip is going to absolutely ruin me but I don't fucking care because LES MIS!
> 
> So yeah, I'm so sorry for the possible delays and thank you so much for reading, you are absolutely wonderful and I really hope you'll enjoy this chapter which did not leave me particularly satisfied with myself!
> 
> Criticism and opinions are more than appreciated yada yada

 

Enjolras does not realize he has been drooling only long after Combeferre has gently nudged his shoulder.

“Enjolras?” he whispers and _God_ does his voice sound exhausted. “Enjolras? I need to go.”

The blond man lets a small groan and opens his eyes, realizing that his neck is stiff and his muscles sore due to the position he has been sleeping in, on a couch he hardly recognizes. “Uh?”

“I need to go, I have a shift at the hospital. Grantaire is alright, sleeping. The baby is too. I’m going to call Cosette, okay?”

Enjolras has just managed to put in order the memories of the previous night which are slowly starting to return and render him in a brief state of shock. “Cosette?” he hears himself croaking.

“Grantaire’s daughter is changed and fed,” Combeferre explains patiently, bending above the couch, “but you’ll probably need help if she wakes up.”

Enjolras lets another small groan and sits up, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “And I’d hoped it was all a bad jetlag dream,” he murmurs. “Don’t call Cosette.”

“But I thought you two were getting along…”

“No,” Enjolras turns around on the couch, ruffling his disheveled locks. “’course we are. Just, it’s early. Don’t call her. I can make it.”

Combeferre looks concerned and Enjolras has to admit that he’s feeling the same, but it really would be a shame to make it hard for other friends of theirs as well.

“Are you sure?”

“How hard can it be?” Enjolras shrugs his shoulders uncertainly. “Really, I’ll be fine. R will be up soon anyway. Go to work and then straight at home. You need rest.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. After all, it _is_ a wonder of humanity to hear Enjolras instructing another human being on getting enough rest.

Combeferre leaves and Enjolras can’t let go off the eternal and recurrent realization that his best friend is a god among men, especially when he finds a steamy mug of coffee in the mess that is Grantaire’s kitchen table. He does indeed feel like a zombie, and this could only be expected considering the night that they both had, but it’s morning, it’s sunny enough for Enjolras to photosynthesize by the window, and everything seems clearer. He realizes that, for once, he has nothing to do, no duty to accomplish, no task to finish. He is free from work and the only thing that remains is the planning of their next meeting. It is particularly bizarre for Enjolras to have nothing to concentrate on, nothing to worry about and base his daily planning on. He doesn’t know whether he can get used to it, and he is a hundred percent positive that soon he’ll invent ways to keep himself busy (though he’s more than thankful for the fact that he finally has the time to focus entirely on their activism).

Placing his empty mug in the sink, he makes his way back in the living room where the baby carrier is laying on the floor. Kneeling next to her, he realizes that the little girl is not sleeping and for the first time in forever she seems to be awake _and_ calm. She’s making little gurgling sounds, small bubbles of drool between her rosy lips, and she’s playing with her feet, holding them up in the air and trying to catch them with her little hands. When she takes notice of Enjolras she turns and fixes her eyes on him –not that he knows whether she’s actually old enough to fix her gaze on someone or not. Her eyes are blue and dry, and for a horrifying moment he thinks something terrible is going to happen again, but then she cracks a cheerful toothless smile –is she old enough to even smile?- and there are small dimples on her chubby cheeks and Enjolras really doesn’t know what to do, or how to feel about this, but then thankfully he hears steps in the room.

Grantaire is standing there, ratty and groggy and looking like death warmed over. Their eyes meet for a while and it’s so confusing, for an instant it’s like staring at the baby’s blue eyes only it hurts to look at them, god it _hurts_ because Grantaire looks ashamed and torn and it makes Enjolras feel like he’s invading in something very personal. Grantaire kneels next to him and reaches to take her in his arms. She outstretches her own and wraps them around his neck, locking her body safely in her father’s embrace. She looks merry and comfortable and safe, as if she hasn’t spent the night in complete agony which she shared with Enjolras and saint Combeferre. She doesn’t seem to mind that her father’s unwashed and unshaven and miserable, and probably reeks of hangover, she seems contented enough to be in his arms and shows it with a pattern of small noises which sound like humming.

“I’m sorry,” it’s all that Grantaire can say as he turns his head to face Enjolras, and guilt is sincerely engraved on his face before he leans to press a kid on his daughter’s soft head. “I don’t know what to say, I’m a disgusting asshole who doesn’t deserve her and you and everyone but believe me, I’m _so_ sorry.”

Half of Enjolras has the urge to punch Grantaire on the face and hate him forever, but the other half knows that’s not what Grantaire needs, knows that’s not entirely Grantaire’s fault. “It’s okay,” he mutters. “In fact I came here to apologize for last night. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

There is a pause as Grantaire stands up on his feet, rocking the baby on his shoulders. “Neither should I,” he says eventually. “Thank you for… everything. For keeping her alive through the night, I guess? I was so drunk I didn’t hear her cry at all.”

“In fact it’s Combeferre you should thank,” Enjolras feels his voice softening and he even cracks a small, forgiving smile. “I completely freaked out when she first started crying,” he confesses, “thankfully Combeferre has grown up with three younger sisters.”

Grantaire looks breathless, with what seems to be shame and remorse. “Shit,” he croaks. “I really owe Combeferre a coffee, don’t I? Or a cable-knit grandpa sweater. And a kingdom.”

Enjolras scrunches up his nose. “I don’t think he’s really into monarchy.”

Grantaire cracks a smile as the baby leaves small, happy cries, flapping her hands on her father’s chest. “I swear,” his expression falls again. “I’ve never drunk since I found her,” his voice is almost desperate now, as if Enjolras is accusing him with his glance. “I never would. It just… it hit me last night when I realized you were right, and I couldn’t really handle it.” He looks at her briefly, as if the innocence of her sight is going to burn through him, or like he doesn’t have the right to lay his eyes upon her. “I can’t afford losing her. I _need_ to keep her, Enjolras. You have to understand.” He turns around again to place a soft kiss on her cheek just behind her ear and she turns her head to stare at him with wide open eyes.

Enjolras stands up and heaves a sigh. This is hard, this is harder than he’d ever consider, and what really is harder is that he doesn’t know what the right thing is anymore. “You can’t keep her, R,” he says softly, feeling an unusual tightness in his chest. This is not a game. She needs her mother.”

“But don’t you see?” Grantaire frowns at his direction, securing his hold of the baby. “Her mother tossed her in some fucking doorway _,_ Enjolras. She didn’t love her!”

“And do you love her?”

Grantaire remains silent for a while, and Enjolras remains silent, and they really don’t know where all those awkward silences came for because really, Enjolras doesn’t remember silence and Grantaire ever going together in the same sentence before he left. “How can you know when it’s so early?”

Grantaire’s gaze is intense on Enjolras, so intense that it makes him feel uncomfortable, he feels like those eyes are scanning through him and his every thought. “Sometimes you just know these things.”

It’s obvious and glass clear, Grantaire really does need the baby in his life, it’s a feeling Enjolras most definitely cannot properly relate to, yet at that moment he can’t stop feeling like an invader. “But look at you,” he says and his voice comes out half-hearted, almost tender, scaring himself.

“Yeah, look at me,” Grantaire says bitterly, his voice hoarse, “Just let me try, Apollo. I swear I’ll do my best for her, she really is my world now.”

The words echo in Enjolras’ head so strange, and he clears his throat as Grantaire holds his daughter closer on him, cooing incoherent nothings in her hair. He knows he doesn’t belong there anymore, not now and for once he thinks that Grantaire might eventually make it. He turns to the door before stopping in the middle of the living room and turning around. “There’s coffee in the kitchen. Call us if you need anything. I mean… not me. Someone who actually knows about babies.”

Grantaire nods slowly, and there’s a genuine smile on his face. “Thank you,” he says. “I owe you.”

Enjolras nods absently before gathering his jacket and walking away, his head pounding dully though he isn’t the one with the hangover.

*

Grantaire’s heart is thumping madly in his chest while Combeferre performs a brief examination of her general state of health. He knows that Combeferre isn’t even qualified enough and he and Joly have already approached a pediatrician to make him an appointment, but he’s way too worried to wait for any sort of findings or advice that could change something, anything, and most of all he’s way too scared to go out into the world with such a precious human being that he has the privilege to look after. He can’t think of all the things that can happen, the questions and the raised eyebrows and the possibilities of her being taken away from him, he simply can’t deal with it, not now.

“She seems perfectly healthy, but of course I’m not the one to tell,” Combeferre finally raises his eyes to comfort a breathless Grantaire, his expression gentle behind his spectacles.

“I made your appointment for next week,” smiles Joly comfortingly and something knots tightly inside him. “He was a former professor of mine, excellent doctor and I have made sure that he’s more interested in her wellbeing than in asking too many questions.”

That makes Grantaire exhale in relief. “Thank you. Both of you. So, do you reckon she’s developing well?”

“Pretty much,” Combeferre nods. “It’s normal that she’s a bit fussy, after all she’s only started to adjust to her new environment. As far as I can tell she’s between five and seven months? And she’s rather active, she might soon start crawling and teething. The doctor will arrange her vaccinations, though I’m not sure whether… you know, they’ve already given her any,” he smiles encouragingly before lowering his eyes to the baby who is again particularly interested to her own socked feet and in the noble quest of un-socking them.

It’s immense for Grantaire, all this new world unfolding before him, the chance to help a tiny person into life and struggling to never repeat his own mistakes and keep them away from their new life together, to have the opportunity to watch her grow, be there when she cries to hold her and wipe her tears away, smile with her laughter and see her change as a person, acquire opinions, dream-

- _and have her dreams shattered._

His heart skips a beat in horror. He will never allow her dreams to be shattered, he will turn the fucking world around if needed to give her everything she deserves, everything he never had, and this is too much, this is too wonderful and magical for him to bear.

He’s rendered speechless and lost in his thoughts as his friends occupy themselves with the tiny new member of their group. _Crawling,_ he thinks with fierce pride and incomparable enthusiasm. _She will crawl,_ she’s growing up and he’s already lost time. He swears he will be there from now on, he _knows_ he needs to be there through every tiny thing. He can’t afford to lose another minute, not now.

Musichetta is holding his little girl on her lap, her own bump growing steadily every day, rendering Joly and Bossuet the merriest men in the world, literally glowing with bliss. Bahorel is sitting next to Musichetta, pulling ridiculous faces with Bossuet, and the baby is letting small giggles that probably make the fucking sky (or the ceiling, Grantaire doesn’t know) smile, while Courfeyrac takes pictures of his friends and her, grinning widely behind the camera of his phone. She is then handed to Jehan who baby-talks to her alongisde with Cosette, before the latter raises her eyes to encourage Marius to come sit next to them but Marius is apparently really afraid of babies and it’s only Feuilly and Enjolras looking for some distance because apparently they’re a bit at loss of what to do, only Feuilly looks reservedly excited by the presence of a baby at the meeting held in Courfeyrac’s place, when Enjolras looks uncertain and almost terrified.

Grantaire eventually joins his friends with a wide smile on his face, to play with his daughter, and Enjolras keeps staring at them absent-mindedly from his place on the table. There’s something more bugging him slightly since he returned home, to a solid Wi-Fi connection and a suitcase woefully full and waiting to be unpacked. It doesn’t take long for Combeferre to notice and stand up, to retreat close to his friend. “Is everything okay?” he asks in a somewhat lowered voice.

Enjolras nods, his attention still drawn by the cuddle-pile formed by his friends at the other side of the room, where Jehan is now tickling the giggling baby’s tummy and Courfeyrac is singing some silly incoherent nursery song with dirty words replacing the real ones. “Everything’s fine.”

“Did you get any news from New York?” It’s Combeferre’s strongest character trait that he will always somehow manage to read his mind.

“Yes, actually,” Enjolras’ gaze eventually settles on his friend. “I made some important connections while I was there, which may be proven to be helpful to us in the near future.” He clears his throat a bit uncomfortably, “they offered me a new contract, starting in a few months.

“These are great news!” Combeferre smiles encouragingly. “Are you considering to accept?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras mutters with uncertainty. “I mean, it surely is going to help in so many ways,” his gaze drifts absently towards his friends, realizing once again how much he’s missed the noise of their laughter and the warmth of their company, their devotion, loyalty and passion, their constant presence in his life, “it just isn’t really easy. Being away.”

“I understand,” nods Combeferre, placing a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “It wasn’t the same without you. I mean…” he clears his throat, as it clearly isn’t Combeferre’s field to be emotional, and Enjolras can entirely sympathize with that. “Don’t let us affect your decision in any way,” he smiles in an almost tender manner, “you’ve come so far, Enjolras, and you’ve done so well. You know what to do, you know what is right better than anyone else.”

They’re interrupted by enthusiastic cries and applauds, as apparently the baby has managed to grasp the sippy cup on her own, and Enjolras realizes that this is an accomplishment way more praise-worthy than exposing political exploitation scandals and earning a promotion in less than a year. He can’t help the small smile that forms on his face and just then, Grantaire’s eyes rise from behind Eponine’s shoulders and meet with his own.

It’s rare and it’s absurd, but for once they’re sharing a smile, not knowing how or why, and Enjolras finds himself wanting this strange and entirely too welcome peacemaking to last, just for a little more.

*

Grantaire doesn’t appear for a while and occasionally more of their friends are absent from the meetings, helping him with the baby. Enjolras doesn’t get angry. He understands that they’re busy and that, especially in the beginning, Grantaire will need as much help as possible.

He asks Jehan regularly whether everything’s alright and the man assures him that Grantaire is doing great. Enjolras wants to feel assured but it isn’t always easy, not because he doesn’t believe in Grantaire, but because such a huge transformation in somebody’s life wouldn’t be easy for anyone. However he knows that Jehan is always honest and spends most of his day with Grantaire and the baby. One day he asks Eponine and she snorts. “If you actually care so fucking much why don’t you just call him?”

So Enjolras does, and he feels guilty for ever considering that Grantaire wouldn’t be doing _great,_ as Jehan had assured him.

“Hey,” he answers breathlessly, “it’s not really the perfect moment right now, Moriarty just puked on me.”

“Moriarty?”

“Little Darling.”

“I see. Well, I just wanted to see if you’re doing alright… And if you need any help.”

“Oh, don’t worry Apollo, ‘Ponine’s spending the night here and at the moment we’re preparing her bath. Promise not to drown her. Everything’s under control. I can keep my shit together you know.”

“Of course you can,” a slightly embarrassed Enjolras rushes to say. “What about the pediatrician? Did you visit him?”

“Oh yeah, sure, Joly was an absolute sweetheart and came with me though he really freaked out on our way with all the different child illnesses Teletubby could acquire but apparently she’s perfectly healthy and around five months old, did you know that she can roll on the bed on her tummy now? And then he gave her a vaccination and the poor man got to feel her wrath but it’s okay, she’s fine, they’re both fine!”

“Um, great! Listen R, doesn’t she have… you know, a _proper_ name to be called by?”

“The present left on my doorstep didn’t come with a card,” is Grantaire’s simple, sarcastic answer, and Enjolras feels almost ashamed of ever questioning his conviction and abilities as he’s clearly invested himself in his child, but he doesn’t have time to think about it as the man shouts something about chewing the remote control and declares he has to go.

*

They form a phone habit. Enjolras just calls to check on them and Grantaire runs around in the apartment with his t-shirts covered in drool and an about-to-burp bundle fast asleep on his shoulder (or worse, a full and smelly diaper in his hands) in order to pick up the phone. The two of them had never been particularly close, in fact their _relationship,_ or whatever it was that they had before Enjolras left had always been more than tensed –and the fact that Grantaire had always been miserably in love with a man he could never get to have didn’t really help the entire situation. He doesn’t know exactly what’s changed. The most obvious answer is that Enjolras, even though he doesn’t really do children, and he clearly isn’t too fond of Grantaire’s child (and of Grantaire himself), has that never ending sense of duty towards everyone and really does worry of the innocent baby’s wellbeing, probably certain that he will get drunk enough to flush her down the toilet at some point or another. He doesn’t feel offended, in all honesty he knows that Enjolras has every right to worry. He’s just trying, and he’s trying really hard. He loves her, he loves every minute they spend together, his life has finally found a meaning and he knows she’s allowed her to become his everything.

Not every day is easy, though. It’s hard for her to readjust in a completely different environment and in such a short period of time, and Grantaire hasn’t been known for his ability to deal with mild everyday crisis in the best way possible. He had never been one to care for _things,_ let alone for his own self, and now he finds his every minute being one of total agony for hundreds of things that could possibly go wrong. He has turned from a man who didn’t care to a man who cares just _too much_ for another living person,he hardly sleeps at all and spends the night by her side, making sure she has everything she needs or at least everything he can _understand_ that she needs, he invests his whole day trying to keep himself awake, coffee having taken alcohol’s position and become his best friend, in order to spend time with her, play and talk and think of all the things he wants to teach her. Admittedly it had always been natural with him and children, he loved being around them and they felt really comfortable at his presence, but it is different to lose his breath every time that he thinks of a thing which can go wrong, a thing he can do wrong, almost reaching the verge of paranoia.

Not all days are easy and the doctor told them she would start teething, proving himself right very soon. The introduction of solid food in her diet caused her discomfort in the beginning and thankfully Jehan found that baby massage techniques worked wonders in soothing tummy problems and helping her relax. And just after she found a food pattern and started accepting her mashed vegetables, hell broke loose. It’s absolutely impossible to believe that such a tiny human being has enough reserved liquid to drool so much, and someone has to watch all the time that she won’t choke on her own saliva, plus the pain of new teeth coming makes her irritable and fussy. She might not cry all the time (though she does, most of it), but even when she stops, she’s left so tired and grumpy that it makes his chest heavy. She doesn’t get enough sleep -despite having managed to gradually get more comfortable in her new environment and stop the nighttime feeding- which causes her to be drowsy and tired. At the moment she’s rejected the chewing toy and her comforter, and between her tears she’s instead found comfort on a green dinosaur washcloth. That’s when the phone rings and an exhausted Grantaire tries to reach for it while rocking his baby on his lap, where he was in vain trying to distract her from her pain with pulling faces and imitating animal sounds (apparently it was only the voice of Dobby that did it).

“Grantaire?”

Despite his overall exhaustion and the –once again- crying baby on his knees, Grantaire’s heart never ceases to foolishly skip a beat at the sound of Enjolras’ voice, at the fact that he _does_ care and that he makes an effort when they actually never even bothered (or dared) to call each other before. There’s always the same hint of awkwardness and uncertainty in his voice, the palpable feeling that he’s intruding, that makes Grantaire melt just a little bit, and then leaves him with the same lump on his throat for the rest of the day.

“Yeah, yes, hi…”

“Am I interrupting?...”

“Uh no,” Grantaire rushes to reply, as the baby grumpily tosses the washcloth away and clings on his waist, leaving a tired sob. At the same time he gently starts rocking her again, hushing her softly, while balancing the phone between his ear and his shoulder. “No, you’re not interrupting, I’m just… this is not the perfect moment, okay?”

There is a small pause from the end of the line. “Oh sure, absolutely. I’ll leave you to it. Is just… everything’s okay? Cosette was little anxious to tell me that she and Marius had dinner planned with her father and she wanted to know whether Jehan came to help you?”

Grantaire takes a deep breath. “Listen, I’m a little stormed up under a lot at the minute, okay? I’m going to make it though. It’s just me and Moriarty.”

Another pause. “Why do you call her Moriarty? It’s not after Kerouak’s book, is it?”

And another. “No. Not that, not Dean Moriarty.”

These pauses are going to kill Grantaire, especially when at the same moment his Little Darling she decides to wipe a snotty nose on his t-shirt. “She really needs a name, you know.”

“I know she does but _this is not the moment,_  I swear. I’ll be fine, Apollo. Thank you for caring.”

Enjolras’ voice sounds determined not to hang up. “Yes, but _did_ Jehan come?”

Grantaire takes a deep breath as tiny Moriarty’s sobs intensify and really, she’s such a helplessly suffering, adorable little angel that he feels immensely guilty for ever using that nickname even in an affectionate manner and he hates to admit it but Enjolras is right, she does need a name. “In fact I told Cosette and Eponine that Jehan would come, but Jehan had a slam poetry reading which might help him find connections for his book, and Courfeyrac escorted him to actually _form_ these connections, Feuilly’s working until late and Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet are a bit pregnant themselves, and I assured them all that Eponine would come because they all thought I’d need some sleep after three nights of not being able to sleep a wink, but I sort of lied because ‘Ponine has a date with Combeferre, and…”

“’Ponine has a _WHAT_?”

“Shit. I tend to forget how oblivious you can get at times. Yes, anyway, you might need to have a little talk with your lifelong friend and super husband, but right now I have a teething baby trying to chew on a frame of my sister’s photo –not that I particularly mind, she’s always been a ridiculously photogenic ass- and I really need to go.”

“Grantaire. Listen!”

Grantaire pauses and brings the phone back to his ear while practically begging little Moriarty to accept the comforter as her lord and savior. “Yes, Apollo?”

“I’m coming over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Little Darling (I can't help some Beatles references you know I can't) doesn't have a proper name yet so you'll simply have to roll with Moriarty without questioning it any further. However I have actually picked a name which is absolutely ridiculous, and no it's not Nymphadora.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ginger man stifles a small chuckle. “What about Musichetta? I trust Musichetta.”
> 
> Grantaire flinches. “Clytemnestra.”
> 
> “No,” Jehan looks puzzled. “I asked about _Musi_ … Oh.” Suddenly realization strikes him. “ _Oh_.”
> 
> “Right. Oh.”
> 
> “It’s a… I mean it’s a…”
> 
> “Fucking mouthful.”
> 
> “Right.”
> 
> “And she stabbed her husband. Who was an ass but still. I won’t raise my daughter to grow up and stab people. She can just make them swallow her nosering and choke to death or something equally civilized.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's taken more than ten days to update, but I was in England visiting my best friend who's studying there, and it was the most wonderful week of my life even though I've hardly stopped crying since I returned. London and Paris, it feels like I belong there, they feel like home, the culture, the people, the air of the cities is something I'll never get over and I'll try my best to end up there some day. Sigh. Anyway, I MET ANTON ZETTERHOLM! I mean I didn't technically meet him as he's probably forgotten my existence until now but I hugged him and thanked him for the most magical two hours of my life, told him what watching Les Mis after planning it for so long meant to me and he was so sweet and kind and amazing and I'm sure I'll never get over the fact that this will never happen again as well. I met most of the cast after the show and I was shaking all over and was ready to faint, to the point that Na-Young Jeon (the most amazing Fantine in the world) told me to button my coat because it's cold and Wendy Ferguson (how more perfect can a Thenardier get!) asked me whether I was alright and went all 'aww' over me and Rob Houchen the biggest sweetheart in the world wished my best friend through a video and totally made her birthday and I JUST CAN'T BELIEVE IT ALL HAPPENED I want to cry so much but then I find myself screaming on my own and smiling at the thought of it all.  
> So yeah. I'm back with every scene from the Phantom engraved through my fucking soul or something like that and every amazing English person I met a memory so dearly kept, trying to catch up with the numerous classes I've missed and probably coming down with something. But I'm back in action and I've missed reading and writing fanfiction so much, I've missed you!  
> Here you have a big-ass chapter with the stupidest stories about one of my favorite poetesses.  
> Feedback and opinions are always more than welcome!
> 
> TW: mention of past self-harm attempts

Grantaire almost chokes on the beer he actually hasn’t been drinking. “What? No,” he rushes to answer, completely incredulous. “You’re not _coming over_!”

“You have too much on your back, you need rest. Just hold on, okay?”

“No,” he mentally curses himself for ever opening his fat mouth and bends his head so that the flung dummy doesn’t hit him in the face. “I don’t need to hold on, I’m not on fucking _fire._ Look, I’m really alright. I sort of exaggerated, okay?” _I didn’t._ “You really don’t need to come…”

But Enjolras has already hung up, and Grantaire is left alone with his squirming daughter. “There,” he says tenderly, picking her up and bringing her close to his face, before leaning to place a kiss on her tiny nose. “See what you did, young lady? Your righteous distress alarmed Marble Man. That’s a first, you should be proud!” She is slightly distracted by her father’s weary, smiling face, and she stares at him with identical eyes, chewing on her wet fist. He wipes away the tears from her cheeks with his lips and brings her to rest on his chest, where she feels comforted by the steady beat of his heart, and both of them find peace for a few valuable minutes.

When the bell rings it startles her and she remembers that her gums are inflamed and that she has no other way to express her desperation so she starts crying again. Grantaire’s skull is pounding rhythmically with sleeplessness and all his muscles are sore as he picks her up, murmuring words of adoration against the smooth skin of her cheek and making his way to the door.

Enjolras is standing there looking positively flustered and a bit (only it’s a _lot)_ horrified at the wails of the child which can be heard through the shut door of Grantaire’s apartment. It takes a while for the dark haired man to appear at the doorway, trying to keep the suffering baby in his arms as she’s flailing her own in the air, trying to free herself from she knows not what. Grantaire manages to throw an exhausted smile at their visitor’s general direction before pressing his lips on his daughter’s temple, hushing her softly.

“Oh…” Enjolras exhales at the realization of the state Grantaire has been in.

“You should have considered yourself warned,” Grantaire sighs and steps back Enjolras to get inside so that he can push the door closed with his foot. His eyes fall on the paperbag hanging from Enjolras’ left hand as he awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The strong scent coming from it makes his empty stomach growl in desperation. “Please,” he breathes, “just tell me there’s food in there other than ambrosia, because I really need to have some.”

“It’s Chinese,” says Enjolras uncertainly. “It’s all yours, if sweet and sour chicken is anywhere near your preferences.”

Grantaire is on the verge of tears of relief and gratefulness. There simply hasn’t been enough time for cooking, or breathing, for that matter, and he has already finished Joly’s home cooked lasagna and practically licked the pizza box Eponine brought last night. Needless to say, he’s been starving since morning, to the point he’s started wondering what powder baby milk would taste like. “Thank you,” he groans softly, “I owe you my life.”

Enjolras scrunches up his nose as he proceeds in taking off his red pea coat and settling it neatly on a chair. “You’re exaggerating.” They stand like that, the baby now exhausted and leaving small sobs with her head buried on Grantaire’s damp t-shirt while he pats her back comfortingly. Eventually, Enjolras speaks. “She hasn’t been very well, has she?”

Grantaire shrugs his shoulders, gently enough in order to not disturb her. “Teething can be quite a challenge for young warrior feminists,” he says, and rushes to explain. “Teething is when baby teeth come out.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes in mock offence. “I _do_ go as far as knowing what teething is, Grantaire.”

Grantaire lets a small chuckle. “Right. Of course.” Little Moriarty leaves a heartbreaking muffled sob and Grantaire snuggles her closer to his chest, pressing his lips on her head. “Oh God,” he exhales. “I fucked up again, didn’t I?”

“What are you talking about…”

“Look at her, she’s suffering and I can do nothing about it.”

“It’s not like there _is_ something…”

“I’m a pretty shitty dad, isn’t that what you think?”

“Of course you aren’t…”

“Only I am and I really need her, I can't afford anything to happen because I'm horrible...”

They both realize that they’re speaking on top of each other, which has never been a rare occurrence, but it’s strange that their voices are now soft and gentle, unlike every other similar case in the past. Grantaire chuckles bitterly, it’s small and a bit choked a sound, but Enjolras doesn’t smile. “You’re panicking,” he says softly and with reason, “you…” he takes a deep breath, as if his words are somehow blocked and afraid to leave the bottom of his throat. “You are _not_ a bad dad, R, okay?” He clears his throat, a brilliant shade of red spotting his smooth, pale cheeks. “I don’t think you are. And... and nobody's taking your daughter from you.”

Grantaire can hardly focus on anything else at that moment but Enjolras’ voice, because his heart is racing madly in his ribs and he immediately feels pathetic that a single word of the blond angel standing so absurdly in the middle of his living room still has such an effect on him-

_-and probably always will._

“You need to eat,” Enjolras states firmly, bringing him back to reality.

Grantaire nods absently. “Come in the kitchen and bring the bag, if you can.”

In the tiny kitchen they have an awkward little dance around the sink, as Grantaire’s trying to grab two plates with the baby in his hands and Enjolras to help without really having figured out how. “Here,” he probably finds a solution, stretching his arms out, “hand her to me so you can eat in peace for a couple of minutes.”

Grantaire turns around and eyes Enjolras hesitantly. “Are you sure? Do you know how to do this?”

“What, _hold her_?” Enjolras asks incredulously. “Of course I know how to do it, I’ve done it before!” His voice, however, sounds much more assured than he’s actually feeling.

Grantaire carefully makes a step closer and readjusts the squirming bundle in his arms so that he can hand her to Enjolras, only when she seems the unfamiliar face (no matter how angelic that face may be) she starts screaming in desperation and clings tighter on her father. “Shh… it’s okay, it’s okay,” Grantaire immediately croons in her ear, “you’re not going anywhere, daddy’s not going anywhere, he just needs to eat…”

Enjolras simply stands there, looking positively frustrated (he’s made people cry in horror before, but not before he’s even opened his mouth) and, Grantaire dares to notice, only a little hurt, his arms still outstretched to receive her. “Don’t worry, a face such as yours could hardly scare a kid away. She just doesn’t remember you,” he says reassuringly. “She’s already too young to cope with a family of a dozen and she’s been spending much more time with the others than she has with you.” He mentally curses himself when he realizes his words might have been falsely interpreted as accusing. Enjolras just nods understandingly.

“You need to eat though,” he insists, “and you can’t like that. Give her to me, she’ll have to get used to me anyway sooner or later.”

Enjolras’ words give Grantaire a peculiar feeling of something leaping in his chest, so he places her in the other man’s embrace and after fussing for a while, she buries her teary face in the warm fabric of Enjolras’ sweater and falls fast asleep.

Grantaire raises his eyes from the plates he’s been dividing noodles for the both of them and heaves a huge sigh of relief. “How did you do that?” he hisses in admiration. “Is it all part of the motherfucking _charm_ thing?”

“Um, I don’t know?” whispers Enjolras, puzzled and hesitantly rocking her rhythmically in his arms to make sure she won’t wake up. “She just… fell asleep?”

“Poor baby, she’s exhausted,” croons Grantaire softly, unable to hold a small smile forming on his lips. “Can you place her in her carrier please?”

“Sure,” Enjolras nods curtly, exiting the kitchen, careful with every step. He returns later, looking positively exhausted sentimentally of a task as hard as having to place a baby in her carrier without waking her up.

“You didn’t…” Grantaire gives him a soft, teasing smile.

“I didn’t drop her, no,” nods Enjolras before taking a seat on the table near Grantaire, who pushes a plate full of noodles.

“It’s yours…”

“Eat,” says Grantaire sternly. “Roles never got reversed, as far as I’m concerned. You’re _always_ in need of some food, since the beginning of humanity.”

They eat in silence, both absolutely famished. The apartment is blissfully quiet and Grantaire can only linger in the moment, even though he’s never felt happier and fuller than with his daughter. He can’t be anymore thankful for the meal Enjolras has provided him with and seriously, he is about to melt ten times in a row only he knows he mustn’t and he knows he can’t think properly, not when his eyelids are heavy and drooping and his head feels so heavy. “I haven’t slept for three nights,” he hears himself grunting when he’s finished eating, resting his chin on his fist and struggling to be kept awake.

“Go to sleep,” Enjolras assures him, “really, I’ll stay. I’ve brought work to do and I’m sufficiently rested.”

He’s immediately hit with shock at the realization of the actual meaning of his words. “You’ll stay the night?”

“If you don’t mind,” Enjolras rushes to add. “I mean… that was the point from the beginning, wasn’t it? You need a full night’s sleep. I’ll take care of her, Ferre has shown me how to make her milk if she wakes up… Grantaire? Are you okay?”

Grantaire who felt practically crashed at that point, managed to unfreeze himself and actually respond. “Uh, don’t mind me. I was just trying to make sure you were real. Go on.”

“You look kind of shocked.”

“You look kind of perfect.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Right. Okay. You need sleep. Go to your room, I’ll bring her on the living room to keep an eye on her during the night…”

That seems to bring Grantaire back to reality. “What do you mean in the living room?”

Enjolras looks unsure of what exactly he’s said and was wrong. “I’ll probably need to crash on your couch at some point of the night…”

“No?”

“What?”

“No. Absolutely no way, Enjolras. You’re not crashing on the bloody couch. Your help is already enormous and you’re taking my bed. I can sleep anywhere right now and the couch sounds like heaven to me.”

“Listen Grantaire, you really don’t need to…”

“Yes, I pretty much need to.”

“You’re exhausted. I’m not getting you out of your own bed!”

“Of course you aren’t! I _choose_ to sleep on the couch.”

“And I refuse to let you!”

Grantaire stares incredulously. “It’s my place.”

“Yes, and today I’m helping you! I refuse to sleep on your bed and leave you out of it!”

“Alright then, I’m not sleeping!” cackles Grantaire, stammering his way in the living room and on the couch. “I can’t sleep if I sense you being uncomfortable.” A violent yawn deceived him.

“Fine, I’ll sleep in your damn _bed_ ,” Enjolras throws his arms in the air in exasperation startling Grantaire who wasn’t quite expecting his outburst. “We can share it if that makes you feel better. If you don’t kick I guess we’ll be alright!” his tone is impatient and Grantaire wonders whether he slipped something questionable in his Chinese because he must be fucking hallucinating. He realizes that he must reply something soon, because just sitting there gawping ever so elegantly might soon start looking more than a little suspicious.

“Uh, seriously?” he asks and Enjolras turns to raise an eyebrow at his general direction.

“Well yes, I’d prefer to keep her in the living room so that she wouldn’t wake you during the night but now we can take her carrier in your room, if you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not, I mean… I haven’t changed the sheets in quite a while because I’m a disgusting artistic slob with a full time parent job but…” he really needs to control the pace of his breathing because now he’s practically _rambling_ , not that he isn’t always but he has never felt stupider in his life.

“R,” Enjolras stops him with a small, good-natured sigh. “I don’t care about the sheets,” and with a hint of what seems to Grantaire like a confessional smile, “honestly, I might have learnt to keep my place habitable now that I lived abroad, but I’m always glad myself to return to Combeferre and not having to care for changing my own sheets anymore.”

It’s beyond strange to head to his messy small bedroom together with Enjolras, and had he ever dared to allow himself to dream of such an occurrence in the past, it most certainly had been under slightly different circumstances. Now that his exhausted daughter has fallen fast asleep like an angel in her small carrier, after he bends in to press a loving kiss on the curve of her brow and shoot her a last worried look –no matter how kind Enjolras’ intentions might be, children definitely isn’t his area of expertise, or at least it wasn’t last week when he tried to help them rest by mashing her a cheeseburger and humming her La Marseilleise – he’s feeling a bit like a child himself. His eyes are swollen with exhaustion and his muscles are too sore to protest, so he allows Enjolras to lead him to his bed and collapses most willingly, his eyelids drifting shut before his head even touches the pillow. The next thing he knows is that he’s soft and warm, a blanket wrapped around his still dressed body, and he’s drifted into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Grantaire is a remarkably heavy sleeper, but somehow his daughter’s crying manages to throw him up from bed almost every time, groggy yet alerted enough to immediately assist her, full of soothing words that would make absolutely no sense to any awake, reasonable adult but do both to an incoherent Grantaire and his daughter. So despite the numerous times he’d drifted asleep during the meetings and didn’t wake up until the end, to stammer a mocking remark, much to Enjolras’ fury, it’s him who wakes up in the middle of the night with the first sniffle coming from the carrier, and by the time it turns to desperate wailing, he still hasn’t fully realized what is going on. His heart almost stops when his eyes fall at the figure lying beside him. Enjolras looks like an angel in the dark, his eyes shut and his golden locks sprawled upon the pillow and the moonlit Parisian sky reflecting on him through the window. He’s probably fallen fast asleep because his head is hanging on the pillow and he’s curled without a blanket, an open book fallen on his stomach. It truly is a mesmerizing sight. He looks so innocent, breathing peacefully through half-parted lips, so beautiful and calm, and one would fail to believe that his hobby was overthrowing states and unintentionally breaking people’s hearts. Grantaire cannot believe that they’ve slept in the same bed for several hours. He was asleep when Enjolras came later at night and he probably didn’t feel him climbing on the bed. Ironically enough, it is one of his biggest dreams coming to reality and, if there wasn’t a tiny baby in the room with her little lungs about to explode, Grantaire would easily sit there and ever so creepily stare at him, the way his chest rhythmically rose and fell and the thick curves of his fair eyelashes for the rest of night.

He quickly stands up, swallowing a sigh and reaches for the carrier, mentally reminding himself that he really needs to rush with his savings and buy a crib, as the most grandiose life decisions are usually taken when half asleep or pissed drunk in 3AM. Despite his overall weariness, he can feel a half tender-half bitter smile forming on his lips at the thought of Enjolras’ intentions to take everything in his own hands so that Grantaire would get a full night’s sleep. He faintly remembers a drunken conversation they had with Courfeyrac in what feels like ages ago, before Enjolras had even left. Their fearless leader might be able to go through whole nights without sleeping a wink, Courfeyrac said, stormed under tons of plans and work, cuddling the coffee machine with an expression of utmost conviction on his face, but if he fell asleep, only the canons of the revolution would be able to wake him up. It doesn’t matter, though. Grantaire has never dared to protest for being kept awake by his daughter. Every minute spent with her near him after years of damned solitude and self-induced misery (even those full of nightmarish diapers and intense biting of his favorite things in order to reduce her suffering) is a complete blessing, and he will stoically go through another sleepless night, having to care for an asleep-in-an-unorthodox-position Enjolras as well, instead of being helped by him.

Taking the baby in his arms, he sits on his bed with his back propped against the pillow and hushes her, patting her back as she lies on his lap, having noted that it helps her relax when she’s restless by teething pain. He’s lucky enough that she soon stops crying apart from a few tired sobs now and then, and after he feeds her, she settles against his chest, stifling small yawns. All this time, Grantaire has not stopped singing to her, quietly enough to not wake Enjolras up, and loud enough for her favorite tune to make sense as Musique de la Nuit from the French version of the Phantom of the Opera. Soon she’s fast asleep in his arms, a little human whom he needs to protect from anything bad in the world, an innocent angel with rosy lips, soft dark hair, and shut eyes ( _his_ eyes), clutching with a tiny, chubby fist on his shirt, as if she already knows that he’s her protector, the one whom she _hopefully_ can rely on and clasp his hand when she needs to, the one who’ll always love her the most, insanely much, and completely irrevocably.

Once her breathing is even and she’s sucking on her thumb, he places her in her carrier and returns in bed. He tucks Enjolras under the covers and fixes the position of his head so that he won't wake up with a knotted neck, and the man doesn't even stir at Grantaire's careful touch. It takes only a moment of gazing at his sleeping form, sucking greedily in the sight even if at that moment it feels vile, an intrusion in something sacred he takes no part in, before he thinks that there’s a shade of a smile on the blond’s calm face, and Grantaire knows he’s fallen asleep.

*

There is a song. Enjolras doesn’t exactly know where it’s coming from, because he’s probably dreaming. The bed which is not his bed is warm. The voice is made of silver, and he can almost feel the moonlight though his eyelids are shut. He knows he’s smiling.

Enjolras has not slept so well in years.

*

When Grantaire opens his eyes, there are tentacles wrapped around him and the world feels like a pretty strange place.

It’s an unusually bright day, a few stray sunrays entering through the window and it takes a while for him to realize that those tentacles are actually arms wrapped tightly around his chest and, he realizes, immediately freaking out, a hand pressed above his heart and a nose buried between his shoulder blades, warm breath steaming through the fabric of his shirt.

Everything about the realization that this is _Enjolras_ in his bed, and that Enjolras is fucking _cuddly_ is absurd, and he has no time to think of the magic and the intensity and the complete _madness_ of his situation, or of his pounding heart (oh so fucking _dramatic)_ because he really, _really_ needs to get Enjolras off him, or else he probably won’t live to see the end of it when the man wakes up and realizes what happened through the night, and with Grantaire of all people.

It takes considerable effort to free himself from Enjolras’ murderous grip and roll over to check on his daughter, who is awake, calm and even cheerful, currently sucking on her own toes with an admirable flexibility. He reaches for her and she gives her a cheeky smile that melts his heart, and he buries his nose in her tummy to tickle her, causing her to giggle breathlessly when he hears a groan from behind him and turns his head.

Enjolras is quite a sight, all sleepy and rosy-cheeked, rubbing his eyes and trying to tame a shocking flash of golden bedhead. “Did she wake?” he asks with a hoarse gasp.

Grantaire can’t hold himself from smiling teasingly. “Good morning Goldilocks. She did, and so have you. Or do you need a couple of hours more of your beauty sleep?”

“Shit,” groans Enjolras, passing his palm over his face. “She woke you up in the night, didn’t she?”

“You don’t understand, I _love_ being woken up by screaming, Apollo,” he chuckles softly, placing small kisses all around his daughter’s tummy. “Don’t worry, it really was a miracle that you put her to sleep last night, your help has been immense.”

Despite Grantaire’s reassurance and general gratefulness Enjolras is feeling so guilty that he spends the morning trying to fry pancakes and frying the pan instead, almost blowing the kitchen up and breaking a Wicked mug which Grantaire swears he never really liked (he’s lying) and the real problem is that his daughter, now occupied with a new game of spitting her mashed potatoes towards the ceiling and all over Grantaire’s scruff, gets scared by the crash and starts crying until Jehan and Courfeyrac ring the bell to take ever and she immediately succumbs in Jehan’s impossible baby charms and Courfeyrac’s most skilful peekaboo’s.

They all have breakfast together and talk about Jehan’s poetry reading, keep themselves busy not to laugh at Courfeyrac’s daddy jokes which have grown old and he gets so pissed off that they’re not laughing, that he calls Joly and Bossuet over, certain that they’ll appreciate his sense of humor (which they do). Grantaire doesn’t know how it happens but he doesn’t question it because it’s a feeling completely new to him, they all spend the morning like some sort of a weird, overly functioning family, and after everyone’s morning shifts have finished most of their friends are already over, Combeferre with some baby things he found from when his sisters were young, Feuilly cooking and Grantaire helping (and shit Grantaire can _cook)_ until he’s forcefully sent away to catch up with his painting, which he hadn’t manage to do for so long. Cosette, Musichetta and Bahorel return from the shops –where they apparently lost Marius because baby center is actually enormous- with a new crib, a plastic bathtub and tons of other things that they refused to be paid back for by Grantaire and instead ask him for their portraits, leaving Enjolras wondering when his friends actually became vain, only to be reminded by Courfeyrac the revelation that half of Grantaire’s studio had been found full with Enjolras’ image.

Grantaire takes a break from his latest order and washes his hands, joining them in the living room covered in paint. He sits with Eponine and they play with the baby, who fills the room with precious laughter that echoes so different in Enjolras’ ears from what he has known. The three of them curled together on the cushion in the corner look like family and something strange leaps inside Enjolras, a pang of having been wrong, and a pang of something he doesn’t share.

*

Feuilly and Bahorel are putting together a yellow wooden wardrobe when Grantaire and Jehan take a break and move to the kitchen to make everyone coffee and snacks. Grantaire has been carefully avoiding the possibility of staying alone in a room with one of his closer friends. He knows he’s being paranoid about it, but he’s absolutely terrified at the idea of having them start a conversation about Enjolras spending the night at his place.

“There’s something you need to consider, sooner or later,” Jehan murmurs, and Grantaire is ready to turn his back at him and grit his teeth and growl angrily and stomp his bare foot on the floor (which is a really bad idea considering that he hasn’t slept all night and he’s spent the day covered in paint, fighting with IKEA manuals and injuring himself in several different ways. His head is already throbbing with the echo of the darling little devil’s wails and his muscles are sore; he can’t really deal with a hurt foot as well at the moment. However Jehan continues, and he soon is able to breathe again. “She needs a name. We can’t go on calling her Little Darling, Teletubby, Chief, or Moriarty when she spits her comforter!”

“Why? Moriarty is a wonderful, multi-dimensional genius character!”

“Of course. A wonderful, multi-dimensional genius male _villain_.”

“But you _love_ male villains!” Grantaire protests. “Besides, she’s too young to understand. It’s not like she’s going to suffer traumas when she grows up for being called after a murderous psychopath for a considerably short period of time!”

“Listen. She will _really_ need a name sooner or later, okay?” Jehan says softly, obviously understanding the hundred different things Grantaire has to think and go through lately. “Have you really not given it any thought?”

“I have,” sighs Grantaire, bringing his mug of triple coffee to his lips greedily. Jehan raises an eyebrow and he knows that until then it was only Enjolras who looked as if his life depended on his coffee. “I have, but it’s so hard. Nothing sounds right. She’s like a little angel, you know?” Jehan smiles tenderly, and nods. Grantaire scrunches up his nose. “An evil, murderous, constantly puking little angel with the voice of a soprano. But you get what I mean, she really needs something to suit those adorable dimples and the dark hair and the ridiculously white skin… She’s precious and, well, the suggestions the others have been giving…”

“Tell me,” Jehan says patiently, taking a seat with his tea in his hands. “We have time before they come searching for their beers. What have they suggested?”

Grantaire starts counting fingers. “Let’s see. Cosette suggested my mother’s name, which is Léopoldine and I really don’t feel like it suits her…”

Joly shakes his head. “No. Not Leopoldine.”

“…Combeferre told me of Marie and you won’t get out of my head that it’s all about Marie Curie who is wonderful and all, but it’s just such a common name. I mean, half of her classmates are going to be called Marie.”

“Even the boys.”

“…Even the boys. Middle name, but still.”

“Did Marius suggest anything?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Rosa. After Luxemburg. And honestly, I don’t give a flying fuck about the meanings behind the names, but Pontmercy’s political views –or rather his father’s political views twenty years ago- can already piss twenty seven Combeferres in a row and that would really be a pity. Oh, and then it was Courfeyrac.”

Jehan smirks teasingly. “What did the beautiful asshole say?”

“Can’t you guess?”

Jehan leans back against his chair lazily. “Let’s see… Girl names. Courfeyrac. Asterix movies and lingerie campaigns. Monica Belucci?”

“That’s right. Monique.”

The ginger man stifles a small chuckle. “What about Musichetta? I trust Musichetta.”

Grantaire flinches. “Clytemnestra.”

“No,” Jehan looks puzzled. “I asked about _Musi…_ Oh.” Suddenly realization strikes him. _“Oh.”_

“Right. Oh.”

“It’s a… I mean it’s a…”

“Fucking mouthful.”

“Right.”

“And she stabbed her husband. Who was an ass but still. I won’t raise my daughter to grow up and stab people. She can just make them swallow her nosering and choke to death or something equally civilized.”

“Of course.”

“I mean, you get my point.”

“Of course. Please don’t judge Musichetta. She means well. It’s just pregnancy hormones.”

Grantaire takes a deep breath before rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He doesn’t notice Jehan who stands up and walks to him, wrapping his fingers around his wrists and gently pulling his hands away. The dark haired man instinctively pulls away, a habit that never changed as the years passed. Jehan’s grip is firm, though, and he slowly turns his right wrist, revealing an old scar covered with a few English words in black ink.

 _“You might as well live,”_ he slowly reads, looking at the tattoo almost with veneration. Grantaire’s heart is thrumming in his chest as the smaller man raises his gaze and their eyes meet. “Dorothy Parker was there for you when others weren’t,” he whispers. Grantaire nods, slowly. Maybe all that some people need in some point of their lives is a cynical female poet, and if one person knows stuff about poets, then that must be Jehan. “And look how right she was.”

*

“Please tell me you’re kidding.” Enjolras is frozen on the kitchen table, so frozen that Grantaire considers bringing him some water because Enjolras.exe seems to have crashed. “Please, for the love of everything that is sacred, tell me that you’re not being serious.”

Grantaire raises a mischievous eyebrow before opening the sterilizer to collect the bottles. “I’m always serious, you know that.”

“Please Grantaire,” Enjolras says slowly, as if Grantaire is the infant and not the father. “This _is_ serious. Tell me that you’re not naming your daughter Dorothy.”

“Dorothé,” Grantaire corrects him. “And yes, I pretty much am. I don’t see the problem with that.”

“It’s a great-aunt name!” Enjolras moans childishly, and it’s really, _really_ out of character. Grantaire can’t seem to understand why the man is showing so much interest to his own daughter’s name in first place. “My grand-tante Dorothé smelt of naphthalene and had a mustache!”

“It’s not my fault you have unpleasant childhood memories, Apollo,” sighs Grantaire. “It’s Freud that should care and my beard has no competition with his.”

“It means the gift of God,” Enjolras explains slowly. “You don’t even _believe_ in God.”

“God or _gods_ or whatever doesn’t necessarily have to mean something in particular,” Grantaire mutters, “and Dorothé is a gift.”

Enjolras stands up in frustration. “It’s The Wizard of Oz, isn’t it? You’re in love with Judy Garland. _Jesus,_ Grantaire, she could be your grandmother if she wasn’t _dead,_ how can you be in love with your grandmother?”

Grantaire reckons he is going to need more than three shots of coffee tonight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also just so you know and if your name happens to be Dorothy, _of course_ I don't agree with Enjolras and it most definitely ISN'T a great-aunt name! The reason I named her like that is the fact that I absolutely _adore_ that name!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why don’t you just bring your damn toothbrush? You technically live here already,” Grantaire startles him from the open bathroom door and Enjolras almost jumps up to the ceiling, his mouth full of foam, and Grantaire immediately wishes to bite and swallow his own fucking tongue and maybe flush himself down the toilet because he’s just realized _it’s the fucking toothbrush conversation he just started the toothbrush conversation what the actual fuck was he thinking?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok right I know this has taken ages to update and I know I make the same apology every time but it has been a shitty week when shitty stuff happened and the week before that was frustrating, to say the least, so here you are after a whole month, with an insufficient yet existing update. I promise I'm up for more soon, I mean I think I have some ideas so I'm sorry for the hiatus.  
> Constructive criticism and opinions are always more than appreciated!

For one reason or the other, Enjolras ends up spending most time at Grantaire’s and they even form some sort of deal with which they both are okay, of dividing the bed and the couch between them during the different days of the week. Grantaire understands that after a year of hard work it must be really strange for the other man to have nothing to keep himself busy yet he can only be thankful for the hours he can now spend sleeping or even painting, thanks to his contribution. He has two new orders, people whom Cosette introduced him to and everything is under control.

Well, _everything._

Apart from the fact that Enjolras is sleeping on his couch or in his bed without him under his covers (because apparently there was a mute deal between them that sleeping together isn’t exactly what they do and Grantaire can’t really complain apart from when he can). He tries his best to make it easier for him and sometimes that means taking care of two babies because Enjolras is trying hard to help but he isn’t _exactly_ helping when he forgets to eat for thirty six hours and then remembers that Dorothé needs to eat but Grantaire has to recognize the immense change he has noticed on the man (though Enjolras doesn’t really let it show) when it comes to the child. It’s really mesmerizing to see someone who was always believed by everyone incapable to keep a cactus alive, learning how to change a diaper, watch him doing the essential ritual burp dance with the baby on his shoulder and almost being reduced into tears when she gets otitis (though admittedly Grantaire freaks out just as equally) and they spend the night aggressively comforting each other until even Joly calls to plead them to calm down because it really isn’t something to overly worry about. That was another sort of silent deal, a deal in which Enjolras apologized for ever doubting Grantaire and Grantaire allowing him to care for a child that had never been his own.

Stormed under nappies, mashed vegetables and screaming with only tiny blissful breaks of throwing toys on the wall and giggling the evening away, Grantaire hasn’t really had the time to properly think about the absurdity of the situation and he’s more than thankful for that. He really doesn’t think he’s ready to deal with dreams and reality and everything in between, all that he knows is that Enjolras is staying at his place and has terrible bed hair when he wakes up, and he wears tricolor pajama bottoms (Marius’ present) and sometimes he makes crepes in the morning (or at least tries really hard), and he chews on the cap of his pen when he’s thinking and he also does that weird little thing with his eyebrows and that’s enough, Grantaire isn’t going to question it, no he isn’t.

That, until one day he finds Enjolras trying to clean his teeth with some toothpaste and his finger after unexpectedly crushing on Grantaire’s couch, following an exhausting walk with Dorothé at the park.

“Why don’t you just bring your damn toothbrush? You technically live here already,” Grantaire startles him from the open bathroom door and Enjolras almost jumps up to the ceiling, his mouth full of foam, and Grantaire immediately wishes to bite and swallow his own fucking tongue and maybe flush himself down the toilet because he’s just realized it’s _the fucking toothbrush conversation he just started the toothbrush conversation what the actual fuck was he thinking?_

Enjolras spits in the sink and slowly raises his head, turning to face him. “You mean, _my_ toothbrush?”

Grantaire wishes he would shut up already but one of his biggest woes has always been the inability to accompany his thoughts with the things his mouth does…

…Says.

“Well as I said you practically spend most of your time here. And Dorothé apparently really likes you. I really didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, sorry I fucked up I just wanted to make it easier because you’ve done so much for us…”

“Grantaire.”

“Yes?”

“The swear jar.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes because one of Enjolras’ few addition to his household has been a fucking _swear jar_ even though his daughter isn’t even old enough to understand the difference between ‘papa and ‘poo’. Enjolras says to think of her future. They can use the money for her education.

This kid is up for some huge Ivy league shit.

“Okay. Right. Sorry. I really didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, I just thought…”

“You didn’t make me feel uncomfortable.”

“…I mean you even made pancakes the other day! And you didn’t even burn the building down!”

“I’d really appreciate it…”

“…And I found you cooing to her the other day and doing the belly thing that makes her giggle…”

“Grantaire, please let me stay with you.”

Grantaire freezes at his spot, completely breathless and unmoving, convinced that otitis is spreading and he’d come down with it. “Sorry, what?”

Enjolras is swallowing oh God Grantaire can actually _see_ Enjolras’ neck while he’s swallowing and it is the cutest ~~hottest~~ fucking thing in the world and maybe Grantaire should start putting coins in the swear jar for his thoughts as well because fucking fuck he can’t do this, Enjolras is going to kill him before his daughter’s graduation.

No really. _Before_ that.

“I…” Enjolras lets a small groan, rubbing his face with the bridge of his hand. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I thought… I misinterpreted your words. I’m sorry.”

“Repeat yourself,” Grantaire whispers carefully and slowly, “please.”

“I would really like,” Enjolras starts, equally carefully, “to live here and help you with Dorothé, until I have to go away or until you send me away, because it is a very different, interesting experience and,” a pause, “I understand that you need the help since you have to work and make money and you can’t do everything on your own,” another pause, “you’re really doing a great job with her,” the queen of pauses, “and I care for that child.” The Khaleesi. “A lot.” Of pauses.

“You care for that child,” Grantaire croaks before properly clearing his throat in order for his voice to not sound so strangled. “And you’d like… you’d like to stay here?”

Enjolras shrugs his shoulders defensively. “I’m so sorry, I would never impose myself… I mean, you made it sound like… Sorry, Courf is right I shouldn’t do people.”

Grantaire nods slowly. “Courf is right, you shouldn’t.” All the stoicism with which he’d faced the whole situation up to that point has been remarkable, but right now he knows he’s going to explode and it’s going to be weird and ugly. “It is your choice, I guess,” he murmurs.

“What?” Enjolras is the one who seems shocked right now. “Really? Could I… would you allow me to help you?”

“I don’t need _help,_ Enjolras,” Grantaire corrects him absurdly. “I understand you need her. I could never not have you here. I’ll make you some space in the bathroom and in the wardrobe. Hope you’re already used to nappies and have good bedtime stories. She’s heard about The Beatles’ breakup at least six times.”

It still seems hard for Enjolras to let it sink in. “Thank you,” he breathes and immediately his voice returns to its normal, official tone, “I will try my best to make the single father life relatively easier for as much as I’m here, and believe me, I’ll work hard to contribute to her education as early as possible…”

“Okay, whatever,” Grantaire mutters, still mesmerized by the actual turn of events in his ridiculous science fiction scenario of a life.

“Until I have to go,” Enjolras says and Grantaire nods because yes, it’s okay, everything’s completely normal, he had always expected he’d actually _live_ with the man he had been in love for what felt like his whole life, the man he’d thought had always hated him, and accept his help to raise his child together, just for him to stand up and casually walk away one day to in the opposite side of the Earth. Yes, this is definitely what he’d signed up for.

And just then Enjolras flashes him a fresh minty smile bright as the sun and simply says “thank you.”

And Grantaire knows he’s the one who should be thanking him but there is a baby crying in his bedroom, and right now he might have forgotten how to speak.

*

A red toothbrush comes first. A shaving machine hesitantly follows and, after Grantaire’s encouragement, a pair of sweatpants and a couple of clean t-shirts. There must probably be underwear too but Grantaire is not going to ask and Enjolras is old enough to do his own laundry (and maybe help with Grantaire’s too. He’s too busy caring for dinosaur footsies and dresses with strawberries and koalas on them right now to consider his own clothes).

Enjolras is working at home, and it’s really strange that for once he’s the one with free days while Grantaire is busy with work and a baby. He watches the man changing in so many ways with every day that goes by, and it’s truly mesmerizing even for a man prone to believe in people and their potential, how one can start caring and give his whole being to another person and getting on with his life in such a remarkable way, reminding nothing of the person he was before. However it’s not only Grantaire, smiling, exhausted, even responsible Grantaire, making-silly-faces-and-dancing-silly-dances Grantaire who has changed. Enjolras is completely taken aback of how fast children grow up. Dorothé was a helpless, frail baby whose face turned red when she cried. After a few months the chubbiness of her age and the gentleness of her tiny features have not gone away, but right now she’s more of a defined human being, Enjolras doesn’t know another way to explain it. Her round cheeks are rosy and healthy. The dark tufts on her head have formed in soft curls that frame her face. Her blue eyes now possess a quirkiness they didn’t before when she plays or listens to a story she hardly understands on Combeferre or Jehan’s lap, and when she smiles (which is pretty often) she gets those adorable dimples and shows her two new teeth. The whole room lights up then and Enjolras can’t help himself. It took a while for him to admit it, but he cares deeply for the child and he wants to give her as much as he can to be happy. He can’t hide his excitement when he gets to hold her, and they have even formed their own rituals like history time –which Grantaire couldn’t prevent despite the young of her age, not that he really tried- or the evenings he spends planning things and writing articles behind his laptop while she teaches the new gurgling sounds she has learnt to her stuffed animals. It’s beautiful how that tiny bundle who managed to scare the shit out of him a couple of months ago is now steadily developing into a person, a beautiful, clever person with so much love to give and to receive in the years to come. For Enjolras, who always got more bedazzled by ideas than by people, this is a magical process Grantaire has gifted him with, and he can’t be any more thankful for the opportunity to stay close for a while. Both in his own eyes and in Grantaire’s, Dorothé impersonates hope and rebirth and in some way they find themselves depending on her just as much as she depends on them.

If Enjolras is taken aback with everything, Grantaire is even more. It’s not only the pretty much expected yet painfully true clichés, how his life has found its meaning, how he’s glowing in everyone’s eyes and how much more sleep than he’d ever believe he needs.

They’re both together when she crawls for the first time and start screeching like toddlers before they reward her with a dozen of kisses. It’s a night like every other. Their friends are busy outside, Enjolras is busy behind his computer, Grantaire is busy painting and Dorothé is remarkably busy distracting them both. Her father takes small breaks from his work –he’s made sure that painting in the same room as her isn’t going to harm her and just in case bought a new stock of non-toxic colors- to wipe his stained hands in a rug and set her on his knees to blow her belly, which always makes her burst into hysteric giggles, and Enjolras pretends to be annoyed while he’s working only he sneaks a few minutes to raise his eyes and hide a smile at the merry scene on the couch, across the room. “Who’s daddy’s little princess?” Grantaire keeps cooing at her, gently poking her tiny adorable nose which caused Feuilly to call her teacup pig. He ignores Enjolras’ frustrated huff at the mention of royal titles and her subconscious familiarization with them and continues deliberately to call her princess and talking about the pony she can have when she hits her sweet sixteen. Grantaire assures the gurgling baby she can have Jehan dye the pony’s hair pink as long as it’s non-toxic dye and she can braid it with flowers and Enjolras asks what will happen if she decides she wants a Porsche instead, like those girls on MTV.

“My child won’t be a spoiled brat,” coos Grantaire, pressing loud kisses on Dorothé’s tummy. “Look at you. I mean, you grew up as one and tried to revolt against your rich parents yet here you are, the personification of righteous fury in an haute couture red pea coat.”

“It was Courfeyrac’s gift,” Enjolras protests. “You know I’d never have bought it myself! Plus I’m afraid you’re already spoiling her. Look at the amount of squeaky toys around the room!”

“It’s for her teeth,” hums Grantaire before letting a pained cry, as said new teeth have just probably cut a piece of his knuckle. “Ouch, you little Viking! That wasn’t very nice of you! Also don’t you dare pretend you have a problem with squeaky toys! I caught you proselyting a duckling the other day!”

“I was merely practicing my speech!” Enjolras tries to defend himself, throwing a few sheets away from him, the first signs of exhaustion now visible on his face. He tries hard to hold back a yawn but in vain.

“You’re working too hard,” Grantaire decides. “I say you stop and call it a night. You’re scaring my child by roaring like an old lion.”

Enjolras snorts, stretches his arms over his head and returns to his notes. “Yeah right, whatever.”

“I’m serious,” Grantaire says with a tone of sarcasm on his voice, considering the nature of his sentence, “that’s enough,” and to emphasize his point, he gets up and walks towards the desk, slamming the huge tome lying before Enjolras shut.

“Hey,” the man protests, “I lost my page.”

“Oh that’s sad,” Grantaire mocks, before returning to the couch and taking Dorothé on his lap. “There is a _princess_ here who deserves your attention.”

Apparently that’s enough to do it for Enjolras, who leaves his work unfinished and resigns to the couch next to Grantaire, outstretching his arms and receiving the baby who looks quite willing to be in his still hesitant yet firm embrace. “Hey, hi,” Enjolras murmurs with concentration, tilting his head on the side to catch her gaze as she looks at the whole new angle with eyes wide open in interest, and drooling on the hands holding her. “Tell your dad I didn’t spend enough time with you today because yesterday I had to change your nappy four times since he woke up in what normal people call early evening, and demanded an omelet being brought to him while he was a hungover blanket burrito in his bed, so my work stayed behind, okay?”

“It was Courfeyrac’s fucking birthday party and I was so tired from our day at the swings that I fell _asleep_ on the fucking bathroom and missed all of it, okay?”

“Life must be tough,” Enjolras says sarcastically, “all you do is sleep anyway. Also swear jar.”

“You didn’t even bother to _hide_ your snoring in your best friend’s birthday party.”

“Well excuse us both if we’re raising a _kid_ and we can’t currently party. At least I didn’t drink!”

“You never do,” is all that Grantaire can come up with, as his heart is doing that weird little dance he’s been quite accustomed to lately, every time when someone or Enjolras himself mentions the fact that they’re raising a kid, _his_ kid together.

He’s still feeling funny while cooking them all something for dinner because Enjolras has taken a break from his work and that deserves some sort of celebration, not to mention that the poor man did actually try to make him an omelet the previous day (almost setting the kitchen and the rest of the flat on fire but that isn’t the point right now) and he has to give him credit for that.

When he returns with two plates of risotto and one of mashed potatoes, Enjolras is sitting cross-legged on the carpet and Dorothé is crawling around. That is quite expected. What he was not expecting to see, however, was his guitar case open on the floor, and said guitar resting on Enjolras’ lap while he’s curiously examining it.

“Do you know how to play?” Grantaire asks, startled.

Enjolras picks a chord completely cluelessly and god, does he look adorable in all his confusion. “Um… nope. Not a note.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Wasn’t Apollo the god of music alongside other cool and sexy shit?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes before taking his plate and Dorothé’s on his lap and tries to gather her with one hand under her body from the floor as Grantaire helps him, taking the guitar off him. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might _not_ after all be the mighty Apollo incarnate?”

“No shit,” gasps Grantaire in shock.

“Swear jar,” croons Enjolras and Grantaire shows him a middle finger before the other man manages to cover Dorothé’s innocent eyes, though she’s occupied in making bubbles with her drool and hardly cares of being corrupted from such a young age by a delinquent father. “What about you?” Enjolras asks before Grantaire has returned the dusty guitar to its natural hiding place in the case. “I know for a fact that you play.”

“Yeah well, that was ages ago,” he mutters dismissively.

“Why don’t you play her something?” Enjolras asks as Grantaire joins them on the carpet to feed his daughter who’s already dug her fingers in her food and started turning her Care Bear pajamas into a work of potato art, clearly imitating her father. “Music is a good enough field to start stirring her spirit for education.”

Grantaire can’t do it, not in front of Enjolras and not on his old, entirely non-tuned guitar. “Yeah, maybe. Not right now though. Weren’t you firm on dinner time in first place, pretentious I-don’t-eat-unless-it’s-nectar-and/or-Combeferre-cooked Apollo?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to reply but it’s just then that they notice Dorothé who has leaned forward from his embrace and reached with her little hand for the chords of the guitar that’s still resting on her father’s lap. They both go silent and hold their breaths until she strums all the chords with her chubby fingers, and it takes another couple of seconds of breathlessness and wide open, shocked eyes before she bursts into a fit of excited shrieks and she leans forward to play more.

“It turns out my daugther’s musically inclined,” Grantaire smiles widely, reaching to tickle her chin with a finger.

“Play to her, please,” exhales an ecstatic at the happy reaction Enjolras.

Grantaire can’t deny it, not to him but to her, because she looks so excited as she strums the off-tune chords and he brings his shaky, callused fingers to rest on them. “Hey teletubby, look at this,” he says before proceeding in playing the intro of Here Comes the Sun.

All he cares about after he gets confident enough to continue, and his fingers get used to the familiar chords again, is his daughter, the huge smile on her face, her wide open mouth in a cry of excitement as she aggressively strums the chords together with her father, distorting his song but getting herself insanely happy. Then she stops, exhausted, and just watches him with vivid interest as he plays, her whole chubby face lit up in the most precious expression of bliss Grantaire has ever witnessed. Enjolras holds the mesmerized child feeling no less mesmerized himself but Grantaire doesn’t notice, for Grantaire only she exists at that moment, she and the music he had forgotten for so long, now bright and revived by a single toothless smile full of innocence and adoration.

“This was good,” breathes Enjolras when he places the guitar down, his disused fingers already aching. “This was really good.”

“Thanks but no?” asks Grantaire, biting his lower lip in frustration because he realizes that he’s just let himself play music in front of Enjolras and he hasn’t played in so long and Enjolras’ voice shouldn’t be so breathless and he doesn’t know what has happened and how he feels about it. “It was crappy, really.”

Enjolras doesn’t argue, not now though he looks about to, because it’s time for Dorothé’s bath.

They’re all full with food and tired enough to be dreaming of their bed and Dorothé is fussy until she’s into her plastic tub and wakes up at the prospect of playing with the water. In less than a minute they’re both kneeling by the bath, splashed from head to toe while she flaps her arms in the tub, tries to sink and murder her rubber duck with a plastic boat, cries for soap that made its way in her eyes almost driving Grantaire to guilt ridden hysterics, and then proceeds in throwing foam all around, including _their_ eyes. And hair. And clothes. And possibly the ceiling.

Grantaire is exhausted, Enjolras knows he is because that’s the way he feels as well, but at that moment Grantaire looks young and free and full, he reminds the blonde nothing of the misery he’d always seen engraved in the man’s expression and he’s pulling faces to make his daughter laugh. He tickles her tummy and washes her hair and takes extra care to comb it and takes her wet chubby hand and presses a thousand kisses on it, and Enjolras’ heart is oddly enough swelling with affection for the both of them. It’s so new a feeling and he really doesn’t know what to do about it, how to fight it back or welcome it or whatever he can do because he’s never been through this before and sometimes he feels sick and sometimes his head feels light and he knows it’s not due to the work or to the lack of it. He watches Grantaire swell his face as his daughter presses her fists on both sides of his cheeks, he watches him imitating Winnie the Pooh voices to distract her and wash her hair, he watches him caring and loving and giving himself over to another person, and he realizes that he’s caring and loving and _needing_ to give himself over as well, for once in so many different ways than it ever happened in the past and he simply doesn’t know what to do because Grantaire’s crooked smiles shouldn’t make his stomach leap, and his baby talk shouldn’t make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside because these are just wrong, and the baby he’s been taking care for the past weeks shouldn’t make it so hard to part from her even for a couple of hours, he shouldn’t allow himself to think of happy images of the _three_ of them in various parts of Dorothé’s life because he simply doesn’t belong there.

And now Grantaire is kneeling next to him on the bathroom floor in nothing but a grey t-shirt, soaked wet and sticking on his chest, his tattooed biceps in full display (though partly covered with white bubblegum scented foam) and his dark curls are wet and disheveled and his eyes are fixed on him and god they’re blue, _why_ are they allowed to be so blue? “Thank you for helping,” he smiles, “bathing her had been a nightmare before. Apparently she gets distracted enough by pulling your luscious fair curls in her war field.”

Dorothé is currently indeed pulling Enjolras’ now wet curls so much that he hurts, and his body is bent for said reason in a weird angle and his own white t-shirt and jeans soaked wet, therefore he understands the peculiarity of the situation but Grantaire’s eyes are so blue so he hears himself saying: “You are so talented. With music, I mean. I didn’t know.”

Grantaire looks fairly startled for a while, before he reaches for a fluffy towel to wrap his suddenly dopey baby inside. “Thanks,” he mutters hoarsely, “only I’m really not. You should have heard Jehan and his accordion…”

“And Combeferre plays the piano,” Enjolras interrupts him, “but that’s not the matter. You were very good, I…” he clears his throat. “I liked what I heard. And I’d like to hear more.”

Grantaire nods slowly, probably wondering whether Enjolras has worked himself too hard to be coherent. “Okay, sure.”

“You have so many talents Grantaire,” Enjolras is hardly aware of the fact that his voice has taken its passionate tone, the one it has when he’s talking of world change and equality, and that his wet hand is resting on Grantaire’s shoulder, wetting it even more. “You need to understand this and start giving more credit to yourself.”

Grantaire looks fairly startled and oddly touched, though Enjolras is afraid to admit that there is a hint of suspicion in his blue eyes. He pulls the wrapped bundle of a baby close to his chest to stop her from shivering and turns to face Enjolras. “Thank you. I don’t know if that’s because you accidentally got drunk on powder baby milk but thank you.”

Enjolras flashes him a ridiculously bright smile until Grantaire brings him back to reality, making him feel like an utter idiot. “Give me her clothes, please? They’re on the changing table.”

The newly found tension of being literally wet and kneeled on the floor next to Grantaire soon dissolves because all three of them are too exhausted to do or think anything coherent, and after less than thirty minutes they’re both changed in clean clothes and lying in the darkness on the double bed. Dorothé didn’t give them any trouble sleeping and now she’s dozed off between them, curled in Grantaire’s outstretched arm, her thick eyelashes shut and breathing peacefully with a thumb in her mouth. The two men are both staring at the ceiling thankful for the long awaited peace and quiet, their eyes used to the dark and relaxed by the traffic lights reflecting from outside the window. “Day,” mutters Grantaire meaningfully, silence following until Enjolras agrees with a tired “day.” During the time they’ve both spent being literally rotten by exhaustion, they’ve formed some sort of a code formed by abbreviations and telegraphic language. For instance ‘day’ means something on terms of ‘what a long day it’s been’ and ‘food’ means something like ‘move your ass and save my life lazy motherfucker it’s been three days since I had my last meal because I had to take care of a puking baby full with existential worries and finish a painting at the same time also I double fucking dare you to charge me with the swear jar’. It’s quite easy and it has quietly formed a level of intimacy that can’t be explained between them.

They’re silent for a while and only their slow breathing can be heard. Grantaire can feel the heat coming off of Enjolras’ body near him but he doesn’t dare move. The fact that they’ve both fell asleep on the same bed several times in the past, before being able to get up on time so that one of them can move to the couch doesn’t change the fact that it has become easy, or that Grantaire has ever, even for a minute stopped being painfully and pitifully in love with him.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” Enjolras finally gathers the strength to whisper, wanting to plan his work schedule.

“Wake up, survive, roll out of bed and have a fucking shower and no don’t roll your eyes upon the ceiling, it has become _really_ tiring. Then go with Cosette for some new baby clothes.”

“She’s growing up too fast.”

“I know,” says Grantaire with a pang of something quite unidentified in his chest. He takes a deep breath. “Also the phone bill came.”

Grantaire regrets it the moment he says it because he knows how his voice sounded and he knows Enjolras knows how his voice sounded and he knows he’s correct when the man whispers in the dark: “You know I could always… You need only ask. I’d be more than happy to…”

“It’s okay Apollo,” he rushes to whisper. “It’s fine. I’ll hopefully finish my painting this week. I don’t… need this alright?”

Enjolras remains silent but Grantaire can sense a quite uncomfortable conversation where he’ll have to deny help he probably needs coming in the morning and he can’t deal with his shit right now. He’s too sleepy to think about his finances, and soon he’s too sleepy to fully notice and analyze the fact that they’re so close that their knuckles are brushing. He knows he’s way too fucked even in his sleep but sleep is good, sleep is heavenly and soon he lets himself be cradled in Morpheus’ arms.

When he wakes up in the morning though by a screaming baby that’s picking on his eyelids, it’s Enjolras whose arms are wrapped around him, and the painful realization that he’s royally fucked returns with the intention to stay.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is losing it.
> 
> His heart does a huge jump thing because she’s smiling widely at him, dimples, drool, two teeth and all, from the corner of the room, holding the edge of the table and standing up
> 
> - _standing up._
> 
> And as if that’s not enough, _if trying to balance on her wobbly chubby knees is not enough_ , she’s stammering something in terms of da-da-da and Enjolras almost passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this beautiful bedtime story Enjolras tells is called "La Durmiente" which almost translates to "The Sleeper" and was written by María Teresa Andruetto and illustrated by Istvanch. It's a beautiful story which used collages and line illustrations like famous artworks and portraits (even Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People) to give another perspective of the Sleeping Beauty's fairytale. I have used the exact translation that my wonderful, talented friend [Starberry Cupcake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StarberryCupcake/pseuds/StarberryCupcake) wrote. I'm just so thankful for her giving me the idea in first place, providing me with all the information and letting me use it, I actually don't know how I'd continue without that amazing idea of hers in the back of my mind! So yeah, it's her you should give the credit to if you like this chapter and the addition of the fairytale in it.  
> As for the rest of this chapter, well I have to say I'm not satisfied. At all. It took me several days to write but it's been a stupid week. Finals are two weeks away and I spend all day trying to read hundreds of pages that are still left, and on top of all soon it'll be two weeks of me being ill because I thought it went away but it fucking didn't and it's exhausted me. I seriously believe I've lost my ability to write, or maybe it's just been a long time and it seems to me like that. Anyway, if you find this baby-ly inaccurate or overly dramatic (which it is) or generally stupid, I would always appreciate some constructive criticism and your opinions on what could be changed.

Enjolras can’t return home for the weekend, no. Not that he needs a break as he’s gotten himself in it in first place and he’s truly dedicated to the child (what else?) but sometimes he might need a couple of days to attend all the other activities that might have been left behind, much to his horror, plus Grantaire is never left without the help of their friends. Still, whenever he returns home for a little peace and quiet that will help him go on with both his writing and his activist work, he can’t deny the fact that something feels quite out of place. He should have known though that this time hell would break loose.

Grantaire is constantly filling him up with the teensiest bits of news even when he’s away for a day, by sending pictures of her chewing on the fluffy unicorn Bahorel got her and smiling adorably at the camera of his phone displaying two tiny teeth, screaming while throwing soup all over the wall, or sleeping like an angel in the middle of a stuffed animal army. Enjolras is constantly smiling when a text message or a mail beeps on his phone, and turns out to not be coming from Combeferre or Courfeyrac, or even the human rights organization he has waited to contact him back for so long.

But no, no he can’t spend a day away from Dorothé and Grantaire, no matter how hard it already is for him, because hell will break loose anyway.

That Sunday, he wakes up at the comfort of his own mattress instead that of a couch or of a bed he happened to be sharing with another man. All he does is check his unread emails and messages (which are _a lot_ ), hoping for a picture of Dorothé trying to speak on the phone, yet there’s nothing of that sort. Instead, he recognizes an email from work which renders him completely speechless.

He doesn’t know exactly how he feels about it. It’s what he’s been expecting for a particularly long time and his insides are boiling with pumping excitement, yet at the same time something feels quite out of place and his stomach is tied in a knot that is probably due to his enthusiasm and surprise but he wishes it would go away.

He thinks of calling Combeferre, he’d promised him he’d let him know about any progress or news, yet he decides to give some time to realize it himself first. He packs his stuff and leaves for Grantaire’s. And the thing is that he’s planning to discuss it with him, he really is. Only when he opens the door –because for some reason he ended up asking for keys and now he has keys and he really can’t remember the logical order of events- Grantaire is already on the doorway trying to shove his arm in the sleeve of his leather jacket while holding a crying baby in his other arm. Enjolras opens his mouth to talk but doesn’t have the chance to say a word before Grantaire places a sloppy kiss on his daughter’s head, who’s now rubbing her eyes with her fists, and hands her over to him. “Look,” he says quickly, grabbing his phone from the table near the door, “I know I look like a really shitty dad right now but I promise I’m _not_ a really shitty dad, I just have the most amazing job offer and I have, I _have_ to get it and I’m late, so it’s the first and last time I need to get my ass out of here and leave you two alone, please for the love of God, _don’t_ try to feed her gummy bears like the last time, okay?”

Enjolras simply rolls his eyes and places a soft kiss on top of Dorothé’s head having obviously missed her, hiding a small smile. “You’re not a shitty dad, that’s great, good luck! Don’t worry about us!”

Grantaire stops out of the door for an instant and turns around like a tornado. Their eyes lock for an instant and then he flashes the most grateful, warm smile Enjolras has ever seen on his lips. That makes everything much harder than it already is, and as if that’s not enough, he grabs Enjolras’ curly head as if he’s a kid and pulls it for a peck between his blond curls, identical to the one he gave to his daughter. He is flushed and doesn’t know what he’s doing and Enjolras simply stands there with a baby in his arms while Grantaire whispers an ecstatic “a job, Apollo!” and disappears in the elevator.

Enjolras needs to take a really deep breath when he’s left alone with an angry and tired Dorothé, and then another, because it’s vital that he calms himself before he’s occupied with calming an infant. This really didn’t go according to plan and it takes a while for him to remember why there’s that heavy weight of excitement and something else a shade darker than that in his chest and can’t go away. It fully returns to him a couple of hours later when Dorothé is calm and happy again, crawling to him while he’s lying on the couch doing some important paperwork and handing him her stuffed toys and needless to say, he proceeds in all the disturbing sounds of exaggerating excitement at the fluffy unicorn and the talking Mike Wazowski. Enjolras’ progress in baby-talk surprises even himself – _especially_ himself. No matter how excellent he’s always been in his mother tongue, foreign languages had never been his strong spot and Courfeyrac had to try hard not to mock his pronunciation in English, until of course he moved away and became fluent –still less fluent than Jehan, Feuilly, Combeferre and Marius put together though. But no, Enjolras speaks fluent gibberish, thank you very much. He considers having a special talent in cooing sounds, and keeps wondering whether there’s a diploma out there he could actually add to his CV, until he realizes how sleepy he really is. The thing is that his thoughts return to him, and he needs to talk. He takes his phone off his pocket and texts Combeferre.

**[From: You] I have news from work.**

The response is almost immediate.

 **[From: Combeferre] I’m in the clinic right now. Call you asap when I’m done.**  

The heavy feeling on his chest is still there after they end up curled together on the couch. Dorothé is wearing her red Sesame Street pajamas and is sipping her milk from her bottle which Enjolras is carefully holding while making passionate social commentary on Sleeping Beauty and stifling a few yawns in between. Enjolras is almost dozing off when he realizes that the baby has crawled off his lap and-

Enjolras is losing it.

His heart does a huge jump thing because she’s smiling widely at him, dimples, drool, two teeth and all, from the corner of the room, holding the edge of the table and standing up

- _standing up._

And as if that’s not enough, _if trying to balance on her wobbly chubby knees is not enough,_ she’s stammering something in terms of da-da-da and Enjolras almost passes out.

He can’t remember ever freaking out so much and he jumps so high that his head almost bangs against the ceiling. All of his reflexes pick up like those of a skilled warrior and in less than a breath he’s crossed the whole room and picked her up, his heart on his mouth.

It’s only when he understands he’s actually scared the fuck out of her as her happy expression immediately freezes on her face and her lower lip trembles until she’s dissolved into sobs that he realizes what he’s done. He freaked out. He tried to save her. He thought she was in danger.

She wasn’t. She wasn’t jumping off the table, goddamit. Their clever, brilliant baby just managed to stand up for the first time all on her own and he almost pissed his pants from the shock. He _terrified_ her, for God’s sake! He’s a monster, that’s what he is.

The first person that comes to his mind while he’s in vain trying to shush her is, for some reason, Musichetta. He ignores the fact that she’s nine months pregnant and should not be bothered and immediately dials her number. Dorothé’s wails are probably heard through the phone because she immediately gets to the point and sounds alarmed. “What happened?”

“Stood up scared her fucked up - the swear jar - _oh god_ will she be traumatized forever _ohgodwillshehateme_?”

Musichetta’s reaction is not exactly helpful as she goes all cooing and applauding “She stood up? Oh Enjolras that’s _wonderful_! Did you hear that, Bossuet? She stood up!”

“No you don’t understand, I scared her and she’s crying, I don’t know what to do!”

He hears fussing at the phone and finally he realizes that Joly is on the line. “Congratulations,” he says cheerfully.

“She’s crying, Joly!”

“Did she hurt her head at the table?” finally someone is sounding as concerned as he should be.

“No – _no._ I just freaked out and… and picked her up. She got scared. She’ll hate me, Joly!” he realizes he’s almost sobbing alongside Dorothé.

“Aw Enjolras, _of course_ she won’t hate you! And no she won’t get scarred for life, it’s okay! Just… give her some water, carefully. Tell her a story. It’s way past her bedtime, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Oh I’m a terrible father,” Enjolras moans, rocking the baby in his arms and balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear.

A _pregnant_ pause –because then it happens to be Musichetta who speaks. He propably is on speaker. “Um, you’re not a father, Enjolras.”

He freezes and the phone almost falls from his ear. “Oh. Yes, of course. Who… who said I’m a father?”

“No one did,” Joly’s voice is gentle and only slightly amused. “We have to go get some sleep now though, we’re kinda _really_ pregnant, okay?”

“Kay.”

“Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.” Which means _don’t call unless the baby’s strangling you because we’ll be having really pregnant threesome sex and you really don’t want to know more about it, really you don’t._

“Kay. Thanks. Bye, Joly.”

He solemnly follows his friend’s instructions, feeling terribly ashamed for so many things in a row. He takes his time to shower her in comforting kisses and wipe the tears from her cheeks, then holding her sippy cup while she takes generous gulps. Then they lie down on the couch, both exhausted and Enjolras wonders how the hell he’ll come up with a story when he’s most obviously not Jehan. He starts considering reciting the Social Contract but then something returns to his mind, _of course._ When she first came, when he first learnt of the child, even without having yet dealt with the fact, he did some research.

He’s feeling peaceful, calm enough to heave a small sigh and let his eyes fall on her. She’s lying on his chest and she most obviously doesn’t hate him. Her tiny fists are clung on his shirt and she’s looking at him with droopy eyelids yet she doesn’t seem ready to sleep. He smiles and his heart melts a little. “You know there was a story I found, written in Argentina, and in that story Sleeping Beauty was not called a _Beauty_ and that was really important because of course…” he scrunches up his nose, noticing that she doesn’t understand a tenth of what he’s saying. “Well, we can leave the social analysis for when you’re a bit older, okay?”

She mumbles “da-da” and that’s enough for his heart to explode without any further explanation. He starts rubbing her back and makes himself more comfortable against the pillows, while fumbling with the Wi-Fi on his phone a bit. It’s not hard to find it again and he feels a rush of wild excitement when he eventually does. Meanwhile Dorothé has taken great interest on his mobile phone and is trying to chew it, but he successfully hides it behind his back and begins, trying to gather her attention. “She had as parents a King and a Queen. Now, royalty is not a good thing, understood? Royalty is _bad_ but still when she was born, trumpets and drums were heard around the world and maybe your dad could have played the guitar. Because he’s really good at it, he really is.” The baby looks comfortable and interested enough, staring at him with huge, wet blue eyes and Enjolras is encouraged to continue. “ _She slept in a cradle of gold with trims of silver._ _She slept and, over the cradle, fairies bowed._ _They were three fairies, those fairies. Three graces bearers of joy_ _..._ _They bowed to offer kindness, to offer beauty and love._ I mean, a scholarship for some good course would have been a great investment for her future as well, but in those years female citizens still struggled to acquire equality of knowledge.” She coos happily as if she understands his lesson and Enjolras feels equally happy, like she’s assured him how important her education will be to her. “Anyway _, o_ _nce upon a time, then, there was a princess. The kindest_ ,” almost unconsciously he leans forward to place a kiss onher soft hair,“ _the_ _most beautiful_ ,” another kiss and a small giggle,“ _the most loved_.”

Not even when alone, surrounded by dozens of books very dear to him, and considerable amounts of idealistic dreams for a better future, never had he felt as peaceful as he felt now, a calm baby resting on his chest, staring at him with steadily drooping eyelids as he spoke, realizing he’s making up half of a story he’s only read once or twice in his life. _“_ _It was not, as they say, the fault of a wicked fairy that caused her pain, a fairy that spoke of a spindle, and of turning fifteen, and of hurting one’s hand and becoming cursed._ _It was not as stories tell._ _What really happened was that the princess was not only beautiful but also kind and she loved._ _She loved her parents, the kings. She loved the pages, the wet nurses and her mother’s servants.  
She also loved the peasants,_ _the craftsmen, the beggars and the hungry._ _What happened is that she grew up listening to the servants talking about their sorrows in the palace’s kitchen and seeing the hungry through a tower window and those hungry of love everywhere…_ _”_

His heart is oddly swelling as he continues, with something warm and familiar and slightly nostalgic, not the voice of his mother who was mostly absent from his early childhood, but the soft woolen sweaters of his nana, her deep, honey voice and the shade of her skin that he had learnt to respect, to love and to admire ever since he was born _. “_ _She grew up and one day left  
_ _the palace_ _, advanced through the streets of the kingdom and saw a very old woman rummaging through some rubbish, a lost kid, a house with hunger, for lunch some potatoes._ _”_ Sometimes his nana told him stories too as, contrary to popular belief, he had once been a kid longing to travel in magic, fictional universes.

 _“And then she knew_ _(this is what tales do not tell)_ _that there were two choices for her: to look what was happening in the kingdom or to close her eyes._ _That was what she chose, that last option,_ _(like tales tell):_ _She closed her eyes and slept. Slept for days, for years._ _”_ Her eyelids had slide shut and she’s breathing peacefully on his chest, but Enjolras has barely realized. _“_ _Let her sleep, said the King. Let her, said the Queen._ _A prince will come to wake her up, he will come, they said_ _(at least, that is what tales say)._ _”_ He made no commentary about the independence of women and the undoubtable fact that they can be whole and accomplished without a man. His voice is only sleepy and soft. _“_ _But because the prince would not come,_ _or to avoid looking at what was happening in the kingdom,_ _the princess kept sleeping._ _While she slept, the kings grew old and the kingdom ended up corrupted._ _”_ He takes a deep breath, realizing that his throat feels dry. _“…_ _Until the people sounded trumpets_ _and drums and harquebuses and cannons._ _And then, the princess awoke, not because of the kiss of a prince but because of a revolution.”_  
  


*

When Grantaire returns home he’s almost smothered by the cuteness of the situation. Enjolras is fast asleep on the couch, his halo of golden hair spread upon all the pillows of the apartment, his mouth hanging open and limbs hanging from the arm, a baby lying on his chest with her thumb in her mouth. He has a hand protectively over her back and they look so perfect that Grantaire doesn’t dare to interrupt them. He places several chairs by the sofa so that she won’t fall on the floor and places a kiss on her cheek after covering them both in a blanket.

*

“They said they’ll call me back,” Grantaire shuffles his cereal with his spoon rather moodily.

“Which means they’ll _probably_ call you back,” Enjolras says reassuringly. “The way you’ve been describing it to me it went well. They’re probably interested.”

“I don’t know…” Grantaire says hesitantly. “It’s just… we need this job, you know.”

“I know.”

Grantaire raises his eyes while Enjolras serves coffee. “How was last night? I found you both passed out. Who exhausted whom?”

“Both, actually,” smiles Enjolras. “She stood up, you know.”

“She _what_?”

“She stood up.”

“Enjolras maybe that’s not…”

They’re both interrupted by a happy shriek and turn their heads to see her wobbling on her feet, balancing herself on the leg of the kitchen table. She looks so happy and proud of herself and Enjolras can only breathe because she didn’t get traumatized to the point that she’d never stand up again after all, and it’s only a second or two of sanity until Grantaire lets a muffled shriek and grabs Enjolras’ face in both his hands.

Enjolras doesn’t have time to breathe or pull away, because Grantaire is close _Grantaire is so close_ and next thing he knows, Grantaire is pressing his lips on his own and Enjolras can’t breathe and probably will never be able to breathe again.

Grantaire kissed him. And pulled away as if struck by electricity, though Enjolras can safely say that his whole being feels on fire as well. Grantaire kissed him and then pulled away. And it tasted of coffee and cereal and smelt faintly of cigarettes and coconut shampoo.

Grantaire kissed him and pulled away, and then stared just for an instant, his blue eyes open widely in horror, before making another choked sound and vanishing in his room, leaving a happy baby behind, standing up and saying “da-da-da”.

_Grantaire kissed him._

A prickling sensation spreads all over his face and, after he’s regained the ability to breathe, Enjolras brings his fingertips to his lips and lingers there for a while, trying to recapture the whole sensation and trap it there for as long as he could. Instead, the warm breath that he still felt upon his lips tasted salty, and the shadow of fingertips on his cheeks was trembling. This isn’t the only kiss they’ve shared and the first one, over a year ago in what seemed to be a completely different life and dimension, empty of a child’s precious laughter, filled him with a horrible déjà vu.

It’s going to happen all over again, from the very beginning, and it’s going to hurt even more. It had been so much easier, trying to convince himself it was over all this time, trying to believe that at least it was over _for him_ when in reality things had always been really fragile, and all it took was a new person he adored to make him stay, and a kiss to make him leave.

He picks Dorothé up to change her nappy but his mind is not entirely here to respond to her games and laugh with her. He spends the day satisfying her every need, bathing her and watching cartoons together and even cooking for her, yet his mind is away, somewhere in the bedroom where Grantaire seems to have locked himself.

When she’s fast asleep he places her in the crib and knocks on Grantaire’s door. Without waiting for a response, he turns the knob and peers inside. Grantaire is bundled up in his bed, seemingly asleep but Enjolras won’t swear upon it. Making his way to the bed, he takes a seat and gently nudges his shoulder. “Grantaire?”

Grantaire is not asleep but is pretending to be. Enjolras sighs. “We need to talk,” he eventually says, placing a hand on what seems to be Grantaire’s shoulder under the duvet.

“Oh do we?” Grantaire says in a strangled, muffled voice.

“Well,” Enjolras takes a deep breath, “you kissed me.”

“I did, didn’t I.”

“Well, you did, and I’d like you to discuss it with me.”

Grantaire peers his disheveled head out of the covers. “There’s nothing to discuss. My daughter stood up for the first time on her own. I was excited.”

“And instead of encouraging her and spending the rest of the day playing with her and teaching her things you decided to kiss me and then disappear.”

“Look, it was a shit day, I’d invested so much in the possibility of getting this job and I haven’t slept the whole weekend because I was by her side and all I ask for is a couple of hours in my bed…”

“You know I don’t mind looking after her. You know that you needing rest is not the actual problem.”

“Then what is?”

“You kissed me, Grantaire! Don’t pretend like nothing happened.”

“And what if it did? What if I kissed you?” the man snaps, sitting up on his bed with flushed cheeks and a dark frown on his face. “Well, I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to but it happened because... because things happen and I’m really sorry for making this whole thing uncomfortable for you, okay?” he snorts bitterly. “I promise I'll watch my fucking reactions from now on.”

Enjolras can feel his heart on his mouth as he clears his throat. “I don’t want this to be like the last time.”

There is silence for a few seconds in which Enjolras can't ignore the pounding in his ears.

“You were the one who left the last time,” Grantaire mutters, refusing to meet his gaze.

Enjolras can’t help himself. He takes Grantaire’s hands in his own, squeezing them slightly, forcing him to look at him. They feel so cold against the skin of his palm and Enjolras is scared. He has a bad feeling about this, a really bad feeling indeed but everything _is supposed_ to go right this time. “Don’t say that again, please. Don’t… don’t let it go this way again, not when it’s… when we need this.” He’s honest, he’s never been more honest in his entire life, not with himself, and it’s a huge relief because he can’t let it go this way again. Grantaire raises his eyes and stares at him with hope and something melts inside Enjolras. He needs to reassure him, he needs to _show_ him that he can believe in a completely new and different beginning. “I don’t know for how long I’ll be staying but we can do this, R.”

Grantaire shoves the covers off his body and shifts to place his feet on the floor. “Wait a minute,” he says slowly, “you don’t know… what did you say?”

“They sent me an email today,” Enjolras says quickly as if that way he’s going to make the words disappear and not count anymore. “They’re offering me a really great position which is going to be permanent and will open some pretty good connections. Plus we could start investing. I could help…”

“I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you as many times as necessary, Enjolras. I don’t need your help.”

“You don’t have a job,” he doesn’t mean any harm with that, in fact his voice is soft, compromising, yet he doesn’t understand the halt they’ve come to until he sees Grantaire’s bitter gaze, a gaze he had connected with the most uncomfortable of his memories. “You just…I care for you both.”

“Then don’t leave.”

Enjolras sighs and reaches for Grantaire’s hand but it’s out of reach and that gives him an unpleasant feeling of emptiness. “You can’t just tell me to not leave,” he murmurs softly, “these things need thought.”

“What kind of thought?” Grantaire huffs. “ _What._ Kind of thought, Enjolras? You come here all upset and tell _me_ that you don’t want this to happen like the last time when you casually abandoned all of us for a year and then returned and decided you’d raise my child like nobody’s business…”

“I didn’t abandon you…” Enjolras doesn’t know what to do and how they’ve come to that, he needs Combeferre, where is he when he most needs him?

“No of course you didn’t but you know what? You can do whatever you want with your life, it’s your own after all, but please at least do take a decision, that would be remarkably convenient for all of us, because if you decide to disappear when Dorothé is three years old and she starts asking where uncle Jolras has gone then believe me, I won’t let this happen. I won’t _ever_ let this child face abandonment, not as long as this passes through my hands.”

“You’re taking this too far…”

“Too far?” Grantaire cackles. “Too far? You were the one talking of responsibility – and I don’t say you should feel responsible for a child that isn’t yours – yet you seem to have engaged in all this voluntarily without giving it any amount of proper thought. What do you think raising a baby is like? Making silly faces and tickling her toes and watching Disney as a break from work, for as long as you’re here until you decide you’ve had enough?”

“No, I think raising a baby is staying by her side when she has a fever and driving her to the doctors in the middle of the night and staying awake for several days, placing all your life aspirations aside and loving it as if it’s yours, almost passing out when you see her standing up and think she’s going to hurt herself and completely losing it when she speaks because I don’t know if she's calling you or me or both or if she’s just stammering.”

“Very touching,” Grantaire presses his lips to a thin line, “but don’t you dare make this all about yourself again! Don’t you even think of it when all you tried to do in the beginning was take her away from me and condemn us both for literally a lifetime!”

“Look I’m sorry, alright?” Enjolras gasps in desperation. “I’ve been wrong and you know it, I’m sorry for my job, I’m sorry for everything! All the credit goes to you…”

“Christ I’m not thriving for _credit_ this is my child we’re talking about…”

“You can’t deny I care too, fuck I’ve shown it in more than enough ways!”

“Of course so why don’t you just show how you care by leaving and going on with your life while she grows up with a drunk useless father?” Grantaire snorts, and Enjolras knows he’s being overly dramatic but they’re caught in this horrible thing again and he doesn’t know how to stop this.                  

“You can’t just dismiss me like an petulant child you fucking _kissed_ me! We can’t always run away from discussing things, just don’t shut me out for once in your life and make this easier for the both of us.”

They’re both thrown up by a crying sound from the other room. Enjolras is ready to go for the baby when Grantaire holds up a hand, already heading to the door. “No,” he says, and his voice holds no spite, only suppressed pain that Enjolras can’t believe he’s managed to cause again. “Please stop, if you’re going to leave. Stop everything. I don’t want her to get attached to anyone who won't stay.”

It’s not very easy for Enjolras to breathe and his insides feel like he’s going to throw up only he can’t try and talk sense into the other man, he can’t defend himself, he can’t say he doesn’t even know yet what will happen with his job and how can he take away from him everything that’s important. All that he asks in a voice even he can barely hear is “don’t you want me here?” to which he receives a quiet reply.

“No, Enjolras. I don’t want you here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I'll try to have the last chapter finished soon and I wish I could promise but I can't.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter of WTF IS WRONG WITH ME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I told you like yesterday I wouldn't have time to write? Guess who'll fail their exams? SERIOUSLY WTF IS WRONG WITH ME this is badly written like seriously melodramatic and all and I don't know what got me, blame it on the song PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE if you're going to read this read this while listening to Emilie Simon's 'Something More' please do it because I've been crying for hours now and this is plain wrong.

Grantaire's head is throbbing violently and he can hardly coordinate his steps and keep his balance. The room goes all blurry when he stands up to open the door and he wonders whether smashing his head on the wall is going to help him stop feeling so groggy. Courfeyrac has driven Enjolras to Grantaire’s apartment to pick his remaining things. Grantaire will always and forever regret accepting Enjolras’ key back because, in the absence of a key, he’s now been forced to expect them and be at home to open the door when he could have just taken Dorothé out and gone to the park or something.

Courfeyrac means to help but that help the last thing he manages to provide. He’s a ball of energy, trying to diffuse the tension while the two of them remain silent, bumping from one room to the other and helping Enjolras gather his few things, but at the same time trying to spark a conversation between them. “Woah these are the pajamas I got you, right? Right Enjo? Guys? Oh _come on,_ guys!” he throws his arms in the air in exasperation as Dorothé crawls into the room. “Won’t you _talk_? Do it for her!”

Courfeyrac doesn’t mean any harm but it’s kind of cheap and it hurts because they both turn to stare at the happy, oblivious baby and Grantaire can’t bear meeting Enjolras’ gaze because he’s never felt guiltier in his entire life. When he does he immediately regrets it because the man looks hurt, more hurt than one can live with.

“You know what?” the blonde eventually surprises them all, his expression gradually turning to that of disgust, a face Grantaire hadn’t seen in so long, the eyes that had filled his fiercest dreams and his most embarrassing nightmares. “It’s for _her_ we should really talk. I don’t want to go.”

“Then don’t! Hallelujah!” Courfeyrac makes an excited, dramatic gesture of relief, but Enjolras cuts him off.

“I don’t want to go and leave her to _him._ ”

Silence falls in the room but his words, sharp like knives are alive and hanging in their breaths. Courfeyrac looks positively shocked while Grantaire stands motionless, trying to shut all thoughts out together with the cruel, throbbing pain in his head.

“Enjolras…” Courfeyrac starts carefully but Enjolras ignores him.

Grantaire clears his throat and calmly rests against the wall in order to not lose his balance because the room is spinning dangerously around him. All of them are ignoring Dorothé’s demands of attention and she’s started fussing, but the tension in the room is cold and burning at the same time and Grantaire doesn’t know if this is real, if this can be happening or if everything – _everything-_ is a part of a nightmare. All that he knows is that a disgusting, masochistic part of him wants to hear more, he _needs_ the pain that he deserves and he needs it spat from Enjolras’ beautiful lips. “What did you say?” he asks slowly.

“You heard what I said!” Enjolras hisses. “I don't want to leave her to you.” He turns at Courfeyrac with spite in his eyes. “Look at him. He’s drunk. You’re _drunk!_ You’ve got a helpless infant to your care and you’re shitfaced! I don’t… I dread to think of the future!”

“So run away,” Grantaire’s lips spread into a thin, bitter smile. “Run away from the future, if thinking of it scares you.”

“You’re a bad father,” says Enjolras and Grantaire’s heart almost stops. They don’t notice how shocked Courfeyrac is, covering his mouth with his palm and staring at them with wide open eyes. They don’t notice Dorothé’s incorrigible words. Suddenly the whole world’s a déjà vu, Grantaire is drunk, the room is spinning and he’s nursing his Jack and a sarcastic face on the table in the corner and Enjolras is staring at him with mere disgust, perfect and fearsome and stunning, and Grantaire is ready to be spat upon to be neglected and denied. Grantaire is ready, once again-

-until he isn’t. This time he won’t embrace this. This time he won’t be fucking thankful for the words piercing through his skin. This time there is a child in the room, _his_ child, and that’s enough. “Fuck you, Enjolras,” he says quietly. “I don’t want you in my life.”

“Has anybody asked her whom she wants in her life?”

“That’s enough,” says Courfeyrac. “That’s fucking enough!”

“Definitely not those who abandon her!” Grantaire ignores him.

“Guys.”

“It’s sad that you cut me out. It really is.”

“I can, you know. She’s my daughter, I have the right to as much as you have the right to disappear from her life.”

“I love her, you know.”

Grantaire chuckles spitefully. “What do you know of _love,_ Apollo?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to reply, and they breathe heavily in silence. Then without a warning, he turns around and opens the door, slamming it behind him. The toddler is thrown up, startled by the sound and Courfeyrac looks ready to collapse before he turns around and calls after him. Grantaire stands there staring at nowhere until Courfeyrac returns in the room, breathing heavily. Stunned silences are not his thing and he proceeds in showing this in less than a minute by shouting, hurt and heartbreakingly betrayed. “Why does that shit keep happening to our group?” he grabs Grantaire’s limp wrists and shakes them. “We LOVE each other so why can’t we have nice things, _why_ R?” He looks ready to cry and Courfeyrac in tears is just so wrong, in fact that’s much more than Grantaire can actually handle right now. Dorothé is sitting in the middle of the room with her blue eyes wide open, already disturbed and shocked by her beloved Enjolras’ burstout, her lower lip trembling dangerously as she watches uncle Courfeyrac regaining his composure and his usual decisiveness. “You are the only one who can keep him back,” he shouts, but it’s desperate. “Do something,” he shakes his arm, “don’t fuck this up, Jesus Grantaire! HE’S LEAVING!”

“It’s not…” _my fault. Of course it’s your fault._ “I can’t do anything about it. It’s his decision, I can’t change it and I don’t want to change it.”

Dorothé is now crying with desperation, pulling Courfeyrac’s knee to gather his attention and stop him and it doesn’t take more than a few seconds for him to start crying as well and Grantaire knows it’s a hideous, ugly crime to make Courfeyrac cry but he can’t make it better because all he wants is to curl in a ball on the floor and cry until he falls asleep. Courfeyrac kneels on the floor and pulls the scared, tired baby on his chest. “Oh God I’m sorry,” he whispers to her in a breaking voice, “I’m so sorry sunshine, _I’m so, so sorry.”_ Then he stands up and wipes his cheek clumsily with the bridge of his hand. Grantaire expects him to tell him to fuck off. He doesn’t. “He’s leaving, R,” is all that Courfeyrac sobs, before walking at the door. “Why can’t we have nice things?”

And Grantaire just stands there when the door slams behind his friend. He stands there when his daughter stops to inhale some air and then continues crying, and pulls his jeans, and clings on his leg, begging for comfort and attention. He stands there as if he has nothing to respond to, no one to expect anything from him, because life as he knew it has frozen and he’s numb.

Eventually he picks her up and holds her tight, as if he’s trying to defend himself against Enjolras’ piercing words that keep pounding in his head with their truth like a second heartbeat.

*

This Earth is full of people. And people are full of shit. There are way too many people, and sometimes when Grantaire is suffocating, he blames it on them.

There are too many people on this Earth, but sometimes there are also angels. Jean Prouvaire unmistakeably is one of them.

“Please don’t blame Courf. He’s regretted everything he’s said, and he’s really hurt that his best friend’s leaving,” the small man says from the changing table, occupied with the not-so-noble quest of changing a diaper of an energetic infant. He makes a pause to tickle her tummy and wriggle his lips in a playful grimace that causes her to giggle adorably before turning his head to Grantaire who’s sitting on the edge of his bed. “He’s taken it a bit personally. You know how he can’t hold his tongue when he’s upset. He didn’t mean any of this.”

“It’s alright,” mutters Grantaire. “I wouldn’t blame him anyway.”

Jehan gives a mysterious, melancholic smile before leaning in to blow a kiss on Dorothé’s tummy, making a series of incorrigible, wet sounds that meddle with her precious laughter. “You should get a nap,” Jehan tells Grantaire in a muffled voice, unable to raise his head and face him as the baby has now gripped his loose, auburn locks in her small fists, and is trying to fill his mouth with them. “Should I make you anything to eat before?”

“I’ve had lunch,” Grantaire lies, bringing his wrists to rub his swollen eyes without shifting from his position upon the pillows.

Jehan joins him on the bed where he sits cross-legged, placing Dorothé on the mattress between them. She stands up on her chubby legs and falters to Grantaire, climbing on his lap screaming “Papa” before pushing his palms against his eyes. He can’t help but chuckle and pull her closer, placing a kiss on her nose.

“Combeferre doesn’t know though, so please don’t tell him anything because he’ll be angry at Courf. He’s… you know, he’s a bit touchy later.” Dorothé cups Grantaire’s chin and huffs at the scratchiness of his beard. “We all are.”

“Hey, don’t blame Courfeyrac,” Grantaire says in a rough voice. “He was right. It’s… you know, it’s my fault.”

“Courf doesn’t think it’s your fault. And he’s not right.” Jehan pulls his long hair in a messy bun on the top of his head before lying back against the pillows, absent-mindedly playing red hands using one hand with the baby. “Nobody’s right and nobody’s wrong in this. We’re humans, things go wrong, mistakes happen but time heals things, okay?”

“You’re not a human,” Grantaire half-smiles, trying to change the subject, brushing a stray lock away from Jehan’s freckled face. “You’re an angel.”

Jehan’s chuckle is sinister. “I’m no angel honey, you know that better than most people.” He twists a finger around a dark ringlet on Dorothé’s hair, startling her and causing her to turn around and flash a toothless smile, her blue eyes glowing with happiness. “ _She’s_ the angel, and she needs you. And to be there for her, you first have to be there for _you_.”

A small smile cracks on Grantaire’s lips and he shuts his eyes as Jehan stretches himself over the pillow to press a kiss on his forehead. Dorothé decides to start playing with his nose and, at that moment, her concentrated screeching sounds might be better than a thousand lover’s kisses.

*

Courfeyrac makes Enjolras apologize via text and he does so without feeling anything about it other than the constant pain he’s been through the past few days. Grantaire accepted the apology and apologized back which has at least given him the opportunity to say goodbye to Dorothé before he leaves. The meeting happens in Enjolras’ apartment after he’s met with everybody else at the café to say goodbye. It’s a sunny day and Grantaire brings Dorothé in her daisy dungarees, she’s happy and beautiful and shrieks her new words, Grantaire is holding her and looking at her with adoration and for a moment Enjolras feels like nothing has changed at all. But then Grantaire raises his eyes and there’s no hatred in them – when he knows there should be – there’s softness and kindness but that’s all that there is. Grantaire is trying to shut him out again and this time Enjolras knows it’s for the best.

He extends his arms to her and Dorothé, who has no idea what’s happening, flashes him her four teeth in a wide smile and climbs on his lap. “She’s so beautiful,” he breathes, gently bumping his finger on the tip of her little nose.

“You know, she could have turned out blond, like you,” Grantaire mutters and Enjolras raises his eyes at him. He immediately looks as if he’s severely regretted it. “Sorry, this is just fucked up,” he croaks.

“Was her mother blond? You remember her?”

Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. “Does it matter?” He absent-mindedly strokes his daughter’s hair. “Look, I’m sorry for everything I told you. You don’t deserve this. You helped so much… with everything.”

Enjolras shakes his blond head. “No, I’m sorry. I was terrible.”

“You weren’t terrible…”

“I called you a bad father. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Grantaire just chuckles bitterly but Enjolras stares at him fiercely, grabbing his forearm. “No, I’m serious. You’re a good father. But you need to focus on this. Be strong for her, please.”

The sound Grantaire makes is distressed, and some other things that Enjolras can’t really identify. “I just… I didn’t want this to happen like that,” he murmurs.

“It was my fault. I’m so sorry.”

Enjolras swallows but there is a lump on his throat that seems to have settled there forever since that morning. “No, it’s not that. I had to leave anyway. This job is going to open the path to so many connections, important allies, organizations… I wish I wouldn’t have to go but… you know.”

Grantaire nods and as Enjolras stares at him he thinks the bags under his eyes have never been so prominent. He’s tried hard to not feel anything on that day but it hurts, everything hurts. He wants – needs – to grab Grantaire’s stupid face and smash it with his own, kiss him like there’s no tomorrow, breathe all the words of love that poets have spoken of inside him and hold him, whisper it will be alright, hold the baby – _their_ baby – and promise her he’s never leaving her side, devoting his every minute in making her life beautiful and safe and free, giving everything that he has to her – to them. He can’t though. It’s not all about kisses and being together. Courfeyrac has said in the past. They can’t have nice things but there still are higher causes that need to be fought when it all comes down and shatters. They aren’t boys anymore. They’re grown-ups. There’s still hope. Just – some other kind of hope.

“Do you think she’ll forget me?” he asks, knowing that his voice sounds broken.

“Of course she won’t forget you,” Grantaire clears his throat. “You can always come back and see her. I mean… whenever you do she’ll be here waiting for you.”

“Will you send me pictures?”

Grantaire stays silent for a while and Enjolras’ heart rate picks up. What if he’s going to lose every contact? What if Grantaire simply doesn’t want him in her life? “I will,” he says eventually. “Every day, if that makes you feel better. We can skype call. Together with the unicorn.”

Enjolras cracks a small smile and nods. Grantaire stands up and clears his throat again. “I… uh. I’ll leave you some time.” And with that, he walks out of the room and gently shuts the door.

Enjolras lowers his head, placing a soft kiss on her cheek as she throws her chubby arms around his neck and clings on him. “Remember that story I told you?” he whispers in her ear and she makes a small happy as a response. “Don’t ever forget that.” She pulls her away to look in her bright blue interested eyes, and bumps his nose with her own tiny one. “Don’t ever let them get you down, not because you’re a girl, little darling, not because of your choices, your preferences or your ideas and, most importantly, don’t you ever let them get you down because you’re growing up with your dad.”

“Papa!” she shrieks happily, squeezing his face between her small palms and Enjolras’ heart shatters into a million pieces.

“Oh God I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” it’s all he manages to say before the lump in his throat explodes and he bursts into tears, placing kisses all over her curly head. “I’m so sorry…”

“Papa?” she protests in a surprised, distressed voice, her tiny hand clumsily stroking his cheek. “Papa no!”

He just buries his face in her dark locks and squeezes her against his chest, trying to memorize every breath and every feeling. He inhales her soft, tender scent of baby powder and shampoo and it’s precious, a few seconds of innocence and bliss until she’s taken away from him.

_No. Until he leaves her._

“Don’t be harsh to your father. Love him. He loves you very much. Don’t let them…” he heaves a sob and just then the door opens carefully.

“I’m sorry,” it’s Combeferre. “You’ll miss your flight.”

He raises his glance and he knows his face is reflected in Combeferre’s hurt yet composed expression. He wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand and carries Dorothé out of the room, handing her over to Grantaire. She doesn’t realize what’s happening and he starts chewing a curl of her father’s hair with intense concentration.

“Thank you,” murmurs Grantaire, his gaze dark and his voice broken. “For everything.”

“No, thank you,” Enjolras breathes, ashamed that they’re getting to see him like this. “You don’t know how much. It’s been… it’s been the greatest period of my life.”

“We’ll miss you,” Grantaire readjusts his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “She’ll… she’ll miss you.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, he doesn’t need to. He’s ready to walk to the car where Combeferre’s waiting but stops, feeling like drowning underwater, his throat is too tight to breathe. “And you?” he hears himself pouting like a needy child. “Won’t you miss me?”

Grantaire is silent and the door is open and the next thing he knows, Grantaire is crying, only he’s crying like he’s done this before, again and again, no ugly sobbing and shaking no, tears are just streaming down Grantaire’s face and they’re both so still, staring at each other with Dorothé between them and they’re not even breathing, the only thing that lives and moves apart from the little girl is the tears that stream slowly down Grantaire’s cheeks, his eyes expressionless and opaque, never allowing Enjolras to stare inside him. “Don’t,” Grantaire whispers beggingly because he's been through this before, has done this before and Enjolras had never realized how it felt to be from that end of saying goodbye. “Please, don’t do this,” his quiet voice cracks and the words are tender on the cynic’s lips, spoken softly like a prayer – no, a _lullaby –_ they’re so close that Enjolras can see the tears dissolving in Grantaire’s beard or disappearing between his lips, he can _almost_ taste the saltiness just by staring but on the next moment he can, because Grantaire is cupping his face with his free hand and standing on his tiptoes and their lips are brushing together ever so faintly and Enjolras thinks he’ll pass out.

It lasts less than a heartbeat and then Grantaire nods slowly, and Enjolras nods back and turns around. Combeferre comes out of the car to help him with his suitcase and Enjolras settles on the back seat.

“Ready?” asks Combeferre in an unusually hoarse voice.

Enjolras turns around to see Grantaire standing on the pavement. It’s a sunny day. “You’ll have a good flight. The weather’s good,” Combeferre comments quite unnecessarily because yes, it’s a sunny day and Grantaire is wearing a t-shirt and he can see the tattoos hugging his arms as he holds the most precious little girl of the world in his embrace, both of them staring at the car. “Ready,” nods Enjolras and it’s a sunny day, a very sunny day indeed as Combeferre takes off and Enjolras watches the image of father and daughter becoming smaller and smaller, before he turns his head to the front.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ENJOLRAS WHAT DID YOU DO?”
> 
> “I DON'T KNOW! I MIGHT HAVE PUNCHED A SECURITY GUARD!-”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG this is so ridiculous, I know it is, it's worse than the worst rom-com movie scenario out there but the previous chapter was so sad that I just had to make everything disgustingly sappy. And I'm really going to fail those exams now that I wrote this, well done me. At least I hope you don't hate me because the end is ridiculous, I already hate me enough for that.  
> I want to thank you SO MUCH for staying with me during the process of this fic, I really hope it made you smile a bit, and not only cry from what I gathered from your last reviews. Your comments and kudos have meant the world to me, really thank you! I've been working on the suitcase trope from tumblr for quite a few days now but studying and this chapter have kept me really busy so I don't know when I'll post something new again but it's really meant a lot.  
> Constructive criticism and opinions are always more than welcome!

“I hate you,” sobs Courfeyrac in Enjolras’ shoulder, squeezing him in a murderous hug. “I hate you so much, you don’t even know!”

“That’s alright Courf, I still love you,” Enjolras tries to joke in vain, holding his best friend affectionately, “you’re soaking my collar.”

“Well FUCK YOU, that’s what I say.”

“I love you,” murmurs Enjolras’ in his friend’s ear and Courfeyrac’s sobs even harder because Enjolras has never been so openly affectionate to his friends before. “Hey, please don’t be sad,” he places a kiss on Courfeyrac’s cheek. “We’ve been through this before.”

“And what made you think it’s okay for it to happen again?”

“I might be able to come back for Christmas…”

“CHRISTMAS? Do you realize what month we have?”

“Come on, Courf. It’s already hard as it is,” says Combeferre gently and Courfeyrac thinks a bit about it before heaving a sigh. “I’m going to bring some coffee and donuts to us all, kay?”

Enjolras smiles. “Great, thanks.”

They remain alone with Combeferre who helps him carry his luggage to the check in. “So,” his friend gives him a small, a neutral smile. “You’ve made your decision.”

“That’s right. I’ve made my decision. And you know how this is going to help our work…”

Combeferre holds up a hand. “Don’t be defensive, what you’re doing is really admirable and I told you I’d support your every decision from the very beginning,” Enjolras opens his mouth to speak, “just,” Combeferre interrupts him, “are you _sure_ this is what you want?”

“Nothing holds me back.” Enjolras hands his passport as Combeferre helps him raise his suitcase.

“This child changed you. All of us, but mostly you.”

Enjolras shrugs his shoulders, feeling relatively angry at Combeferre for not letting this go. “I hope I gave her something.”

His friend smiles softly behind his spectacles and reaches for his hand, squeezing it. “You gave her everything.”

Just on time an announcement is made through the speakers and they spot Courfeyrac, returning with a bag full of donuts and bagels. Enjolras tries to take a bite but nothing seems to go down. “I think it’s time,” Combeferre states, rather uncomfortably.

It’s intense, everything happens in excess. The feelings he’d wished to shut out are there and are burning through his whole being like a painful, infuriating fever. Courfeyrac isn’t crying anymore, he’s composed but he’s hugging him so tight in a thoroughly comforting manner that, in the end, only Courfeyrac can pull off. “It’ll be okay,” he smacks a kiss on Enjolras’ cheek, as if he wasn’t the one to spend the day depressing over it. “Skype us, don’t forget us.”

“I trust the group on you. We’ve done a tremendous job this year. I trust your planning,” Enjolras finds himself squeezed by both his best friends at the same time and for only a second he lets himself sigh in relief in their arms. “Keep me updated on everything that happens. If Musichetta comes into labor… Call me immediately, okay? Even if I’m at work.”

“Don’t worry,” nods Combeferre, “we’ll keep you updated on everything. Call when you land, let us know how things are.”

“Take care of her,” Enjolras says quickly when the next announcement is made, swallowing hard. “Of both of them.”

Courfeyrac smiles and squeezes his clammy hand. “We all will.”

He hugs them again and then walks away quickly, as quickly as possible, feeling like he’s suffocating in his grey suit and red tie, feeling so odd and wrong and at the same time decided to let go and be strong, facing a new beginning like he’s done in the past.

He passes the security check feeling numb. His toes are full with ants, his arms limp by his sides. There is a Chinese family waiting in the queue, two little girls running around each other and their parents smiling and discussing something quietly, looking so happy and peaceful just for the fact that they’re together. Behind him in the row there are two women in their mid-thirties. He realizes they’re together when the one in the front turns around to place a peck on her partner’s lips. He feels his hands shaking and a thought passes through his mind: it will be terribly inconvenient if he gets a panic attack in the middle of the security check. The room is blurry around him, the sounds a haze. He’s already passed the security check.

 _He hates airports_. _They suffocate him. The white cleanness, the shiny floor, the metallic announcements, the feeling of finality, of starting a new life with no turning back, from flying to change without even asking for it._

He’s already passed the security check.

And then he hasn’t.

*

Goodbyes are always painful and one has learn to deal with them. Combeferre has known that since he was a child. Especially when he knows he’s going to see Enjolras again soon, he understands it should be easy.

Well it isn’t, not really. They’ve grown up together since they were children, and the first time they said goodbye in that airport was hard, but at least he knew for how long his best friend would be away then, and the world hadn’t turned upside down yet. Things were easier a year and a half ago, but he adores Grantaire’s daughter and Enjolras adores her as well. Combeferre doesn’t know how things will end up, but at least he hopes he can tell that these months have helped Enjolras develop as a person in numerous aspects.

It’s still hard to part, especially for the second time, yet he knows this is for Enjolras’ best and he comforts Courfeyrac as they walk into the car and get ready to take off.

So he doesn’t immediately turn his head when Courfeyrac shakes his arm and screams “COMBEFERRE!” but when he does he realizes it’s because Enjolras is running – _flying –_ to the car, his suitcase on his hand and a couple of security guards running after him. Without being able to question what the actual fuck is going on, he opens the door and Enjolras bursts inside, breathing heavily, all disheveled with his tie undone.

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

“I HAD TO TAKE MY SUITCASE.”

“ENJOLRAS WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“I DON'T KNOW! I MIGHT HAVE PUNCHED A SECURITY GUARD – _FAST_!”

Combeferre had never thought that there’d come a certain point in his life when he’d have to play car chase, and to be the one who’d be driving but luckily for all of them Combeferre is a very skilled driver and has played way too many videogames with Courfeyrac, Gavroche and Bahorel.

“OHMYGODYOUDIDNTLEAVE!” cries Courfeyrac, ruffling Enjolras’ hair. “I knew you wouldn’t do this to me!”

“ARE THEY FOLLOWING US?” Enjolras has climbed on the back seat, checking behind.

“NO BUT WHERE ARE WE GOING?” shouts Combeferre.

“R’S. FAST!”

“OMG I LOVE IT WHEN WE GO ALL CAPSLOCK!”

Combeferre realizes the truth in Courfeyrac’s words and clears his throat, a little flushed and seemingly disapproving but, like the true Hermione Granger that he is, clearly enjoying the adrenaline. “What happened? What did you do?”

“I realized I couldn’t leave again!”

“Thank Kant!” Combeferre has a little, unusual burstout and mistakenly pushes the horn.

“About time!”

In all the mayhem they hear Shostakovich’s Second Waltz. “Ferre, that’s your phone!”

“I can’t pick it up now, we’re running away from the law.”

“If you both knew I shouldn’t go away why did you let me?”

“ _Because he’s a grown adult and he can take his own decisions,_ ” Courfeyrac mock-mimics Combeferre’s voice. “Adult MY ASS!” He turns around with an interested, gossipy expression. “So tell me about that punch you threw at the security guard.”

Enjolras meets Combeferre’s smile in the front mirror and, at moments like these, he remembers why he loves his best friends.

*

Combeferre’s phone doesn’t stop ringing until they reach Grantaire’s neighborhood but he doesn’t pick up in order to not lose precious time until he’s convinced they’re safe. However when they ring the bell, no one answers. “GRANTAIRE!” shouts Courfeyrac, “WE KNOW YOU’RE HERE, PLEASE OPEN BECAUSE ENJOLRAS HAS REALIZED YOU’RE THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE AND HE’S OUT HERE WAITING TO ASK FOR YOUR HAND AND POSSIBLY YOUR DICK!”

“There’s a child hearing inside!” a terribly flushed Enjolras hisses.

“He isn’t going to open that door! He thinks we’re shitting him! For the love of David Bowie, just shout already!”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, running his palm through his face. “Grantaire!” he raises his voice. “It’s me, Enjolras. I’ve come to formally apologize to you for everything I done!”

“He’s not inside, Enjolras,” Combeferre says carefully after a while, sticking his ear on the door.

“Then where is he?” Enjolras asks in desperation.

Combeferre’s phone rings again and Courfeyrac is ready to explode. “Pick up the fucking thing already or I’ll change it to What does the Fox say while you’re sleeping!”

That’s enough of a threat for Combeferre to take his mobile out of his pocket, and freeze on stop. “It’s Grantaire.” He immediately brings it to his ear. “Hey, R. Where are you?”

The man is shouting so loudly that Enjolras can hear him from where he stands and his heart jumps sixty two times in his chest. “ _Where the fuck have you been Joly has been calling you for an hour or so…”_

“We were at the airport what…?”

“ _Musichetta’s in labor!”_

And that, Enjolras realizes, is what a crazy day must feel like.

*

Less than half an hour later they’re running in a full hospital corridor, Courfeyrac wrapped up in balloons and flowers, Enjolras dressed in his best suit with his heart on his throat and Combeferre constantly with a phone in his ear. Apparently they’ve learnt that Bossuet fainted in the delivery room and Musichetta hit Joly on the head with her IV (which, between the two men, is quite the role reversal), and the mayhem that can be heard through the whole hospital floor quickly indicates where their friends are waiting.

They turn around the corner of the corridor and the first thing they see is Bahorel and Eponine betting on something quite loudly, Marius walking up and down nervously because babies scare him (even though he wants four, they learnt that from quite accurate sources), Feuilly who hands coffees all around and Jehan dressed in some sort of a Medieval dressing gown (honestly, Enjolras could live without knowing what his friends wear to bed) who jumps in Courfeyrac’s arms and they both start bouncing with excitement, and then everyone freezes and shuts up because they’ve spotted Enjolras. “Shit,” Marius whispers, going pale.

“Earth to Marius?” Enjolras hears a voice that causes him to forget how to breathe. “Have you seen a fucking ghost or something?”

And then Feuilly slowly moves and, on a seat behind the giant elephant plushies, he reveals Grantaire, still in the sweats and t-shirt Enjolras knows he wears to bed. He looks disheveled, as if he’s gone through dozens of different emotions and levels of shock that day. He slowly stands up, muttering _shitshitshit_ under his breath and Enjolras simply stands there with a hand on his chest, trying to catch his breath and to even his frantic heartbeat out.

“A ghost you say…” begins poor Marius, but someone (probably Eponine) presses a palm upon his mouth and the rest is a muffled chorus of protestations.

“You’re back,” Grantaire gapes.

Enjolras nods. “For real this time.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I can’t believe it. You’re back…”

“And he punched a security guar… mmmphm!” Bahorel whistles but Courfeyrac is also being muffled, probably by Jehan or Combeferre. Enjolras can’t tell, his eyes are fixed on Grantaire.

“You did it for her? Because then she’s the luckiest child in the world.”

Enjolras takes a step forward. “She already is the luckiest child in the world.”

“She’s gone with Cosette to stare at the toys, she couldn’t stop crying. She’ll be here soon.”

This is really shitty, like a rom-com because all of their friends are around and staring and this really shouldn’t happen like that but at the same time it should, Enjolras knows it should because it’s never felt more right before, his heart is pounding loudly in his ears and he thinks he’s going to explode and it will be such a pity because everybody’s staring and this is his good suit but _he hates that suit,_ he always had and he knows it’s right and he can’t hold it back anymore.

“I love you!” he hears himself saying, maybe a bit too loud because Marius chokes and gets a coughing fit and Feuilly almost falls from his seat but Grantaire doesn’t seem to have heard because he’s standing there, frozen and steel-eyed, staring at nowhere. “Grantaire?” he grabs his arms and shakes him in obvious desperation. “I said _I love you_!”

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac clears his throat. “Uh… I think you broke him.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Grantaire asks in a strangled voice.

“You – _us_!” Enjolras makes a distressed sound. “Just… tell me you want me to stay, don’t make me say it again!”

“Apollo,” Grantaire chokes, “please, say it again.”

And Enjolras does a million times, this once on Grantaire’s lips, on his nose, on his cheeks and his eyelids, and then again on his lips, parting his own slowly and tasting him, all of him again and again, everything he’s missed and everything he’s longed for. Grantaire gasps against his mouth and then relaxes in his arms and Enjolras freaks out on an instant because Grantaire feels heavy and Enjolras fears he’ll collapse in his embrace, but then he throws his arms around him and kisses him for what seems like forever, and everyone’s whistling and cheering but they don’t matter because Grantaire is warm in Enjolras’ arms, there are fingers in his hair and a palm on the back of his neck and Grantaire moans softly against him, a small sound that can also be taken for a tiny sob…

But then there is a shriek and they break the kiss because Cosette is standing in the middle on the corridor completely awestruck, holding Dorothé and a giant inflatable turtle. The little girl has extended her arms towards Enjolras and is screaming “PAPA!” jumping up and down in poor Cosette’s embrace and trying to escape. Enjolras crosses the room with a firm stride and grabs their girl in his arms, tossing her in the air and swirling her around, filling the corridor with the magical sound of the child’s laughter.

He balances Dorothé on one arm and wraps the other around Grantaire’s waist, pulling him closer. “I know I’ve been a fucking idiot but please, let me stay with you, and with her. You’re all I need, please forgive me!”

Grantaire buries his head in the crook of Enjolras’ neck and lets something between a chuckle and a whimper. Enjolras realizes he’s crying. “You’re a fucking idiot and this is going to the swear jar.” He presses his lips on the soft skin of his neck. “God, I love you so much!”

“And I, you.”

“Don’t leave us again, don’t you dare!”

“I’m never,” he whispers, kisses Grantaire’s head, “ever”, he turns to kiss Dorothé’s soft cheek, and the child buries her head in Enjolras’ shoulder and clings safely on him, “going anywhere.” Dorothé raises her head to look at him with a sleepy grin. As Enjolras holds them both close to him, he can’t help but notice once again how blue their eyes are. And just while he’s sure this is a dream he’s living, one he never wants to wake up from, they hear a breathless shout behind them.

“Excuse us but will anyone pay attention to _us_ tonight?”

It’s Bossuet and Joly, both in hospital robes, the latter holding an icepack on his forehead. They’re both glowing with excitement. Bossuet still looks a bit faint while Joly is positively hyper.

“Well shit!” cries Jehan. “Have you had the baby?”

“YEAH baby!” Bossuet jumps in his friends’ arms. “We’re daddies!”

“ _Two_!” Joly is laughing hysterically. “TWO BABIES!”

Everyone is hugging and shouting Congratulations because Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta have twins and what can be more wonderful than that, and Enjolras hasn’t felt so happy in years – scratch that, he’s _never_ felt so happy in his entire life, Dorothé giggles and claps her little hands too and Courfeyrac shouts “three babies! We have three babies!” Which apparently is a mistake because Cosette gives a mischievous smile and corrects him. “Four.”

Everyone stands there dumbstruck and silent, either because they’re too shocked with the new piece of information, because they’re letting it sink in or because they’ve simply run out of strength to shout and applaud and do what excited people do. And that’s until heard a loud _thump_ on the floor and Bahorel’s voice follows before they manage to turn around and see what has happened.

“Uh, Joly? I know you’re really excited you’re a dad and all, but _I think_ that Marius needs your medical assistance?”

“Fuck,” breathes Enjolras, turning to observe the extent of the damage. And just when he thinks that he’s never leaving this place again, Dorothé claps her hand and gurgles “Fackh!”

A stunned silence falls and Enjolras _knows_ that there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.


End file.
